THE LODGER: A STORY OF THE LONDON FOG
***½/**** Image A- Sound A+ Extras A
starring Ivor Novello, June (née June Tripp), Malcolm Keen, Marie Ault
scenario by Eliot Stannard, from the novel by Mrs. Belloc Lowndes
directed by Alfred Hitchcock
When Boys Leave Home
***/**** Image A Sound A Extras A
starring Ivor Novello, Robin Irvine, Isabel Jeans, Ben Webster
scenario by Eliot Stannard, based on the play by Constance Collier & David L'Estrange (née Ivor Novello)
directed by Alfred Hitchcock
by Walter Chaw Alfred Hitchcock's fifth time at the plate produced his third completed picture, The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog (hereafter The Lodger), based on a 1913 novel by Marie Belloc Lowndes that was itself based on the 1888 Jack the Ripper murders, which still would have been in the immediate cultural memory of 1927. When first screened, distributor C.M. Woolf proclaimed it incomprehensible, jeopardizing its release until London Film Society founding member Ivor Montagu was enlisted to clear up the mess. In truth, Montagu liked what he saw, advised the reshooting of the darkest scenes, and, with Hitchcock's approval and assistance, discarded a good number of title cards to, in effect, leave the storytelling to the visuals. Producer Michael Balcon, already a supporter, called it good, and the picture allowed the British film industry to finally boast a product that could compete with not merely the artistically-dominant European cinema (France, Germany, and Russia), but also the commercially-dominant American dream factory. Just in time, as it happened. The passage of the 1927 Cinematograph Films Act stipulated that distributors would guarantee at least 7.5% of their total output be British: a number that would increase in increments until it hit 20% in 1936. The skeletal British industry boasted few stars. On the strength of The Lodger and his earlier The Pleasure Garden, Hitchcock was something of a known quantity before much of the British public had even seen any of his films.
There would be another 16 films of varying quality--I love Downhill as a sort of Louise Brooks bad-girl melodrama from the victim's perspective (more on that later), and Blackmail is amazing--before he arguably returned to this incarnation of Hitchcock, who would make a landmark three-decade run of quality pictures, from, arguably, The Man Who Knew Too Much in 1934 to Marnie in 1964. The minor miracle of Hitchcock is that The Lodger is a product already fully in its skin. It's a work that predicts future domestic-anxiety films like Shadow of a Doubt, Rear Window, and Vertigo most obviously (even a bit of dialogue and business about the advisability of leaving out a large sum of money for anyone to steal is recycled), yes, but should also be considered in every conversation about the best, most revolutionary British silents. At the very least, it broke the flailing, musty British film industry from its steadfast and stodgy belief that art could only be found in documentary subjects and the documentary form--that at least some measure of visual artistry and fancifulness had to take hold if there was ever to be something called a "British film industry." Hitchcock didn't save Hollywood, but he might have saved the English equivalent of it--to the extent it could be saved. When Truffaut noted the "certain incompatibility" of the terms "cinema" and "Britain," he wasn't just being a French asshole.
With a style most often attributed to Hitchcock's tutelage in German Expressionism, The Lodger is more indebted to modern ideas of Dada, Cubism (see: the beautiful titles designed by E. McKnight Kauffer, a graphic artist famous for his dynamic advertising posters and book covers), and especially Structuralism to the degree that Hitchcock's Catholicism speaks to some horrifying underlying order implied by surface phenomena. Its most famous scene features its family unit (complete with appropriate suitor) staring up at their upstairs boarder pacing back and forth above them, his feet shot through a glass floor--echoes of a sequence from Rene Clair's short Entr'acte in which a male ballet dancer, dressed as a female ballet dancer, is shot "upskirt" through glass as he pirouettes. Hitchcock would have become familiar with Clair's work through the recently-minted London Film Society and was likely amused by the sexual fluidity and taboo titillation possible with film. His feature debut, 1925's The Pleasure Garden, already nails cinema's voyeuristic qualities in a brilliant opening shot panning across a line of men leering at dancing girls (with POV shots of legs and arms) before ending on a woman asleep in an aisle seat. At this point in his career, though, it's fair to say he was more a cunning collector than a truly original entity. His urge to collect is something Hitchcock would exhibit through the art objects in his films and, finally, in the character of Norman Bates (a close cousin of demonic Brandon (John Dall) from Rope), whose hobby is stuffing birds, young and old, that he's trapped in his parlour after feeding them. In time, Hitchcock decodes his urge to collect as another symptom of the masculine will to possess. Nevertheless, "Hitchcockian" is a term best associated with the types of gender relationships unpacked in The Lodger. He tried on a lot of hats, in other words, and this is the one that fit.
Music composer, playwright, and brand-new matinee idol Novello was openly gay during a time it was dangerous to be so, more famous and feted as a creature of musical theatre and forbidden by the powers-that-be to be the murderer. He plays the Lodger, who appears in the titular London Fog one evening between the Tuesday serial murders of blonde girls by the self-dubbed "The Avenger." (The Avenger leaves a literal calling card behind, "signing" his murders.) The question of the film will be whether the Lodger is the Avenger, of course, although the bigger question for me is what our psychopath is avenging. There are several possible answers. The film reveals that the Lodger himself is avenging the death of his sister at the hands of the killer, along with the emotionally-related passing of his mother. The Lodger, then, is the only known avenger of the film, yet although he's an avenger, he's not the killer. Hitchcock could be playing with the idea that all men fashion themselves as knights-errant. It's an odd confusion that blurs the line between the mystery everyone is trying to solve within the film versus the mystery everyone in the audience is trying to solve. I wonder if the birth of the MacGuffin isn't here in this essential confusion. The killer is caught off-screen in an aside that trivializes the question; the film solves the wrong problem, which is actually the right question. Why does Daisy choose the Lodger? Because he is the "proper" version of what he imagines himself to be: an avenger. Phew.
The family is introduced as such, with the daughter of said family, fair-haired Daisy (June Tripp, billed Cher-like as "June"), being actively courted by (every day) Joe (Malcolm Keen), who makes a pest of himself in the way that men do. He handcuffs her at one point and she screams in horror. It isn't what she wants, and she declares it in no uncertain terms. Joe, as retaliation and in a fit of sexual jealousy, puts the finger on the Lodger, resulting in the Lodger's near-lynching at the hands of a vigilante mob. Precursors, both, of Hitchcock's "wrong man" compulsion, but ultimately the logical result of a Catholic upbringing that suggests one can inherit sin--that you can do nothing and still be guilty as shit. At the moment of the Lodger's martyrdom, Hitchcock perversely places him in handcuffs as well, so that when he's hung from the middle of a guardrail looming over an embankment, his personal Calvary, his hands are together in a pose approximating supplication. (Add I Confess to the list of subsequent Hitchcocks tracing their way back to this headwater.) The woman at her most helpless, entered into an unwanted engagement; the man at his most helpless, accused of a crime he didn't commit by a feckless constabulary. Hitchcock piles on the Catholic iconography with the image of a cross cast across the Lodger's face when he first tries to close off the outside world in his room for let. Later comes the reflection of twin crosses in the Lodger's eyes at the moment of his public betrayal, a trick that must have been achieved the same way as the reflection of the courtyard in Jeff's telephoto lens in Rear Window: a matte placed at the right distance and lit just so.
It's a queer movie, too, not just for Novello's real-life persona, but for the way the dialogue treats his character as peculiarly uninterested in women and of no obvious sexual threat to Daisy. Well, at least until Daisy declares that he's the one she chooses. Why would she pick someone so obviously dancing to a different beat? Daisy is the first of Hitchcock's powerful women, blazing their way against society's expectations before conceding to conventions of docile, matrimonial behaviour. Should they concede too soon, Hitchcock punishes them for it. The birds attack when Melanie Daniels elects not to play a trick on Mitch. Norman strikes when Marion commits to returning the money. With The Lodger, what's challenged is the social definition of what a man should be and what a woman should be. The mother (Marie Ault) is a rare empathetic matriarch in Hitchcock's world, mirroring the loving tribute to his mother offered uncomplicated in Shadow of a Doubt. I like that both of these mothers are anchors for their families and uncontroversial for it. In an incisive sequence, the Lodger buys Daisy a dress he sees her model, instantly earning the ire of her mother and father (Arthur Chesney), who recognize the gesture for an attempt to dress a woman in a manufactured ideal, like the saleslady in Vertigo does. Daisy picks the Lodger because the Lodger is the wrong man.
She is engaged in an act of absolute defiance: unlike young Charlie (Theresa Wright) in Shadow of a Doubt, she doesn't, in the end, remove herself from her demon lovers for the protection of the blandly acceptable detective. She chooses chaos. The film ends on a loaded, naughty note as the opening neon invitation of showgirls--"TO-NIGHT: GOLDEN CURLS"--undercuts The Lodger and Daisy's triumphant romantic embrace. It refers slyly, perhaps, to the coming consummation of their relationship and the reveal of pubic curls; it reminds of the "wet" and "hot" descriptions of screaming, eroticized breaking headlines; and it suggests that this ironic announcement of the recently-caught murderer's preference of collecting blondes may not be unique to murderers. Most troublingly, it speaks to the undercurrent of unrequited, incestual longing in the way the Lodger pines for his lost sister and is unable to see other pictures of blonde women. That is, until he meets Daisy and sublimates his lust for vengeance for his sister into a physical lust for this woman downstairs--all with the tacit approval of a dead mother, killed by grief, who bids her son promise that he hold no desire before that desire for justice. That he never really sees his sister's murderer brought to justice makes all of it feel kind of in-progress: incomplete, unsatisfied, forever unrequited. The Lodger is about the limbo of masculinity. It identifies Hitchcock very early on as the seminal filmmaker of the ugliness that drives men to the depths of atrocity, it's true, but also the heights of heroism and sacrifice. He will spend the next fifty years adding to the conversation he starts in earnest here.
And he begins immediately with Ivor Novello again in the same year's Downhill (renamed When Boys Leave Home for its U.S. release) that is a quantum leap forward in terms of thematic clarity and, late in the film, its use of montage and double exposure. Where The Lodger sees Hitchcock a great chronicler of modern artistic trends, his follow-up sees a filmmaker coming into a better command of his instrument. Midway between German Expressionism and the Russian school; call it "British Expressionism"--and no one did it better than Hitchcock will do here. Three segments--the real, the dream, and the displacement of illusion--lead into one another. In the Romanticist construct, it would be Blake's Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, hallmarked with sets and distancing camera placements that isolate our fallen hero like Adam and Eve, shielding their eyes before the fires of erudition as they're cast out from Eden. They predict the blasted, empty wastelands of The 39 Steps and his vertiginous bird's-eye views of victims, the doomed and the damned.
Set in a prestigious prep school where well-to-do "boy" Roddy (Novello) and his wrong-side-of-the-tracks buddy Tim Wakeley (Robin Irvine) become fast friends before being cast apart for the crime of attracting the eye of the same craven woman, Downhill seems at first a vanity piece for the thirty-something Novello, playing a schoolboy in a film based upon a play he had written with Constance Collier. It proves to be something more interesting. Downhill has some of the most striking allegorical images of Hitchcock's career and, by the end, can be read with profit as an allegory for the difficulties of being a gay man in 1920s England, where being gay was illegal. Even in its first third, grounded in ostensible reality, Hitchcock introduces an element of uncanny dread in a mob of celebrants storming a field post-rugby match to the initial horror of star athlete Roddy. Later, Roddy and Wakeley approach the Dean's office through towering columns that dwarf them. After he's judged guilty of some phantom indiscretion, Roddy stumbles alone through these columns again, and there's something in his posture of the figure of Christ post-Pilate's sentence. And when Roddy's summarily expelled from his father's house (after he's cowered in a chair like Robert Walker's Bruno in his mother's study in Strangers on a Train), he rides an escalator to a train going "anywhere" down, down, down in an extended sequence of humiliation--the literalization of the film's title. Fade from there to a card that announces the pact was kept at a price, and entry into the "Land of Make-Believe."
Schooled equally in the Vertov/Kuleshov school of montage and cross-cutting, Downhill is a class in looking. A scene in the dean's office once a bombshell is dropped mid-film finds Novello's dashing captain of the rugby team, Roddy, staring off-screen right while best friend Wakeley (Robin Irvine) faces left. It's a tableau of schism and betrayal in a bosom, possibly romantic relationship. What's happened is that Wakeley has slept with a waitress, Mabel (Annette Benson), whom both he and Roddy are seeing, resulting in an unwanted pregnancy. Mabel blames Roddy, leading to his expulsion, and here's where it gets a little complicated. It's clear that Roddy's been misidentified, but the events leading up to The Event are foggy. They meet after hours in the bakery where Mabel works. From the outside, it resembles Hitchcock's parents' grocery store--one that closes at one o'clock on the dot. The three of them dance--predicting something of the arrangement from Design for Living (1933)--and carouse until Wakeley disappears with Mabel behind a beaded curtain, itself code for a particular bohemian lifestyle. Placing the scene of Roddy's eventual ruin in what might be a replica of the Hitchcock family business is loaded with a wealth of Freudian baggage to unpack. The harlot works in this place of Hitchcock's earliest memory; and without even giving up her sex, she accuses him of a crime. It's Oedipal, of course, here and in the conflict with the father, and when there's a failure of separation read in that, too, an early diagnosis of homosexuality. At root, however, the film feels progressive in that Hitchcockian bromide that everyone has it coming.
Mabel spins a record on the phonograph called "I Want Some Money," performed by the Bohemian Band. It's a song choice as on-the-nose as "Eroica" in Norman Bates's room. She's Guy's chiselling wife from Strangers on a Train, serving the same function by interfering in the relationship between the two men at the centre of the picture. She dances...and they dance. Annoyed that Roddy seems disinterested in consummation, she turns her attention to the more pliant Wakeley as Roddy puts a lampshade on his head and plays proprietor to a band of hungry children. When he checks on his friends, they're in an amorous embrace. Mabel becomes annoyed that he's mis-rung a purchase on the cash register, possibly getting her in trouble with her employer, but Roddy broadcasts his wealthy background by paying the difference out of pocket. Mabel leans in for a kiss; Roddy rejects her. And you see the plan hatch in her head. I think Mabel is more offended that Roddy doesn't express much interest in her sexually. Disgust with Roddy's sexuality (something that surfaces again most explicitly in, of all places, Rear Window) is a possible explanation for why the dean and finally Roddy's father are so quick to find fault with the former Big Man on Campus. Mabel's accusal unfolds in a complex series of double-exposures showing the lie that Mabel has woven to trap the wealthy Roddy. It's beautiful. Though Wakeley could protest, without a social safety net, he remains mute, letting his buddy take the fall. Hitchcock zooms in on the school's crest at key points: a cross with the word "Honour" stitched below it. The irony is hardly subtle.
Downhill is the dry run for not just the queer-coded relationships of Strangers on a Train and Rope, but also the Catholic guilt-transference of I Confess in the character of Roddy, who, out of a sense of noblesse oblige, declines to out Mabel and Wakeley for their secular self-interest. He's a martyr to his social standing and good breeding--conditions Hitchcock likens to yoke and whip. Domesticity is the usual target of this particular Hitchcockian saw, here applied to Roddy (whom Hitch has already feminized as the subject of a woman's gaze as he bathes, naked to the waist, stunned by her attention to his immodesty). But back to the "Land of Make-Believe," we catch up with Roddy dressed in a tuxedo jacket, only to pull back and discover he's a waiter at a resort, now reduced to stealing the cigarette case of a wealthy vacationing couple--then back farther still to find his indignity complete as an extra in a musical revue, playing the thief behind the stars and a row of dancing girls. Stage and performance figure large in Hitchcock's work as he struggles to mark the border between how a person appears and the beast barely at bay underneath every skin. The lead actors blow smoke at the camera; photographs come alive; mirrors represent the fracture of reality; an upside-down POV shot Hitch would repeat for Suspicion and Notorious shows up here for the first time; and then Roddy re-enters as a sycophant in a world where he's constantly reminded of what he's exchanged for his fidelity to a friend. The sticking point for many with Downhill is that Roddy is too much the victim in a plot that simply requires him to tell the truth about an ugly bit of business involving a working-class bird and his classless chum. I think that misses the point entirely.
Downhill is a Catholic parable about modesty and grace in the face of all hardship. Roddy is reduced to a bit player even in the fantasy of the second act of the film, when he inherits £30,000 from a long lost godmother and successfully woos the shallow actress Julia (Isabel Jeans) away from her actor husband (Ian Hunter), only to learn that her dowry is a stack of department-store bills. It isn't love, it's Roddy's attempt to marry back into the status he's lost--and Hitchcock punishes him for it. The status conferred by marriage is illusory, and so the courtship plays out as less star-crossed or breathless than doomed from inception. Julia is vain, a pretender by trade and nature set against Roddy, who has become a bit player in his own drama. On their wedding night, he leans against the far left of three doors in their marriage suite. There are only two doors in Frank R. Stockton's short story "The Lady, or the Tiger?" (1882), but I think the third door in the suite is not a great choice, either: financial insolvency and cuckolding at the hands of a pretty spendthrift. He's the victim, again, of a grift. The only thing money has ever bought him is misery, exile, and humiliation. Roddy enters a lift and descends again, this time to be reborn as a fifty-franc-a-dance gigolo pimped out by one of Hitchcock's soon-to-be-signature grande dames, Madame Michet (Barbara Gott). Identified as a master of reading people, the madam pairs Roddy with a lonesome woman played by Constance Collier, Novello's aforementioned writing partner, who would appear herself as a Grande Dame in Rope in twenty-one years' time. They strike up a conversation in which he finds himself telling her everything. It's a scene striking for Collier's kind aspect. She's listening to him, and Hitchcock allows her to (though not without a very funny cut to a violinist on stage, sawing away). At odds with the easy charge that Downhill is misogynistic is this moment of grace. Roddy says, "You seem different amidst all this artificiality," and Hitchcock is offering a thesis, eloquently, beautifully, for all of the romance--and there's a lot of romance, some of it genuine--that appears in his films.
Suddenly the shades fly up in the dance hall. A miserable old bastard has a seizure of some kind. And everything is revealed in the "Searching, relentless sunlight" as ugly, jagged, false in the dawn of the new day. It's a scene that would be at home in a Murnau film. I object to the casting of Collier's mysterious empathizer as just another predator, but at this point in his slide, Roddy can't tell his allies from his foes. Standing by the middle of three white pillars, he walks away from this indignity, tiny against gigantic iron doors that close behind him. As he lies dying in a flophouse on the docks of Marseilles, he pleads with "Father" to take him back. As in The Lodger, a canted cross casts a shadow over his bed--his to bear. In illness and despair, his flop-mates, dockworkers, sailors, and other low-rent types discover Roddy's last testament or suicide note: a card for Wakeley declaring that through it all, he's kept his promises. They load Roddy onto a boat, and in fevered flashback he confronts the ghost of his father and others who have betrayed him, in frames tinted sickly green. Hitchcock does this again in Vertigo, of course--green not for verdancy, but for soul-deep moral decay. Gears turning in double-exposure behind Roddy's head transform into the phonograph, then into his various dance partners in a nightmarish line going back to Mabel. Long before Freudian dream analysis became a thing for Hitchcock is this montage used as a diary of his return to health and literal return to England. Roddy looks out the portal at one moment (in the exact framing of the pre- and post-rape sequence in Marnie), and it's five days later. The spectre of his father appears on the dock wearing a bobby's uniform. There will never be a more explicit image reflecting Hitchcock's lifelong mistrust of the police. Instinct leads Roddy home, and he's welcomed into his father's house.
Underscreened in the extreme and, I think, unfairly maligned and overlooked, even in otherwise-exhaustive critical analyses of Hitchcock's films (the most substantial essay I'd ever read on it prior to the one that comes with Criterion's Blu-ray is Raymond Durgnat's page-and-a-half from The Strange Case of Alfred Hitchcock), Downhill joins this secondary rank of Hitchcock pictures that more often than not were, or remain, career B-sides: the parables (I Confess, The Wrong Man, Marnie), the experiments (Rope, Lifeboat), the vaguely surreal comedies (The Trouble with Harry, Family Plot). It has a depth of Catholic searching made unusual by Novello's open homosexuality and, within the film, by his obvious dislike for the touch of a woman--making his quest for identity and acceptance into a Christ-like ordeal, or a story of the Prodigal returned at last from the wilderness to the warmth of his childhood hearth. As queer anthems go, you could do worse. Indeed, given the evidence of Hitchcock's later empathy with homosexuality, it's hard to describe a gay read of Downhill as a reach. In Novello's play, after all, a beautiful young man, in making a promise to keep the secret of another beautiful young man, suffers a journey of near-fatal humiliation at the hands of three women before falling into the arms of his mother. Such is the essential stuff of melodrama, and Downhill is a fine and unexpectedly loaded version of it. If not for the slapstick that infects some of it--and a final shot of athletic vitality that finally breaks the vanity barrier for me--it would rank that much higher.
THE BLU-RAY DISC
Criterion brings The Lodger and Downhill to Blu-ray on a single disc, the latter presented as a bonus feature. The Lodger's 2K BFI restoration, sourced from a duplicate negative, first appeared on the format in the UK in 2012 and reproduces the tints and tones of the nitrate prints via digital intermediate. (Generally, sepia represents interiors and dark blue represents exteriors, although exceptions occur, like the violet-tinted epilogue.) There is some minor, negligible degradation of the image that couldn't be buffed out and if anything feels ineffably "right" in context. To my thinking, the overlays of colour can be a tad opaque, smothering film grain and shadow detail in equal measure. That being said, there are no glaring deficiencies of compression, and the same goes for Downhill, which adheres to a similar philosophy with regards to tinting/toning but if anything looks a little more authentic than The Lodger, with superior contrasts. (It was restored, again in 2K, from a nitrate print.) Note that the Criterion version of Downhill runs 5 minutes longer than alternatives because Criterion took it upon themselves to correct the frame-rate. The LPCM 2.0 stereo track for The Lodger, consisting of a Neil Brand score, sounds impeccable, since it's a modern recording tailored to this release. Ditto Brand's score for Downhill, despite Criterion ditching uncompressed audio in favour of space-saving Dolby Digital.
Launching the HD supplementary material, scholar William Rothman appears in a 32-minute piece on The Lodger from 2017 that provides essential background information on the film world as it existed in the mid-1920s. He nails the idea that Hitchcock was every inch the collage artist at this time and puts to rest any notion that this somehow diminishes the skill of the compilation. Hitchcock brings together all the extant film industries and styles in these early pictures. While I diverge from Mr. Rothman when he identifies the likes of North by Northwest and Marnie as successful, even uplifting romances, his analysis of The Lodger is erudite and revealing. "The Bunting House" (18 mins.) features Steven Jacobs examining the settings and production design of the film, drawing lines from there to the rest of Hitchcock's work in a fine, professional fashion. The swinging light, along with the almost-naughty bathtub sequence, positions it with Psycho, while the telescoping stairway is a precursor to Vertigo. It's an exceptional and fun piece for the Hitchcock fan.
Moving on, composer Neil Brand (23 mins.) talks about scoring this version of The Lodger, "film noir chords," and how he fit these "big fat sounds" into an ideology around the film. I learned a lot. Hitch himself materializes in two excerpts from 1963 and 1972 interviews conducted by Peter Bogdanovich. The first runs approximately 20 minutes and sees Hitch reflecting on early influences, including his apocryphal tale of being locked up for no reason as a child. Later, he sort of dodges the question of whether he treated women better in his youth. In the subsequent interview segment (21 mins.), Hitch expounds at length on his early days leading up to The Pleasure Garden (which, as it happens, is also really good). I wish I could listen to these without Bogdanovich's Hitchcock impersonation larding up the intros.
The CBS Radio series "Suspense" had as its pilot a radio adaptation (31 mins.) of The Lodger featuring Herbert Marshall and Edmund Gwenn. It's of particular interest because Hitchcock directed the play himself, apparently not long after the release of Rebecca (his first American film). Marshall's voice is like the smooth arch of an eyebrow. He portrays a sleuth in the play, and all-in-all it's an unusually polished, natural-feeling production with some overlapping dialogue and interesting, spare Foley work. Turns out Hitchcock could direct actors pretty well after all, camera or no. I like that the rapping on the door sounds like the ticking of a clock, as well as the frightening, growling vocalizations that prefigure (no kidding) things like the prank callers from Black Christmas and Scream. It's kind of awesome, folks. The disc's leaflet insert is a foldout containing an exceptional Philip Kemp essay that captures the key points of The Lodger's genesis and its major thematic elements. On the flipside is another essay by Kemp, this one on Downhill, natch. It doesn't consider the film's allegorical qualities, alas, but it does praise that closing dream sequence as among the best--if not the best--of Hitchcock's career. Lovely Cubist artwork in the style of Kauffer graces both this booklet and the outer packaging.
- The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog
90 minutes; Not Rated; 1.33:1 (1080p/MPEG-4); English 2.0 LPCM; BD-50; Region A; Criterion
110 minutes; Not Rated; 1.33:1 (1080p/MPEG-4); English DD 2.0; BD-50; Region A; Criterion