"And then, my fourth one is a comedy, and I was torn between Some Like It Hot, which I love, but my vote went to Spinal Tap, which I thought was more contemporary. It made me feel such an old man, but… One of the things about Spinal Tap — I was doing a documentary [The Long Way Home] about Russian rock and roll in, I don’t know, the late ’80s or something like that, and it was about a Russian band coming — it was around Glasnost when they came across to America to make the record, and it was about Glasnost, and the co-production, as it were, saw the closing of the gap between East and West, as it were. That’s what it set out to be, but it turned out to be a disaster. Not the film, but the whole object of the enterprise, because it split the band up, and the Russian band never made another record. They were completely disoriented by being in the West and all that. So it was one of those documentaries where what you set out to do, you don’t do, and you do something else, which is usually better than what you were going to do. The point of the story is that I showed them Spinal Tap. They fell about, and they couldn’t speak a word of English, but they absolutely got it. It was just, again, the power of the humor and the power of the images, and all this kind of stuff. I mean, we were in common ground — they never understood a word of it, but they were just laughing as much I would laugh every time I saw it. That was a kind of interesting experience for me, to see how universal films can be."

"All this talk about bonus features has made me think we need to talk about extras! I apologize, but I’m gonna deep-dive for a sec. It’s just that the special features are such key ingredients to some of these amazing Criterion titles and have become such an essential part of my own viewing experiences. There are stunning extras in the Criterion Collection that I often think about as important additions to the history of movies. So don’t get me started, or I’m going to start blabbing about the piles of amazing extras on Barry Lyndon (which fill two Blu-rays!). Or the amazing documentaries on 8½ and Seven Samurai and Brazil. Or The Game, with its eight different audio commentaries. Or that concert film in the edition of Inside Llewyn Davis. Or every Andrea Arnold short film on Fish Tank. Or that Cronos supplement where Guillermo del Toro gives a nerdgasm tour of his bonkers house. (I told you: don’t get me started.) But I think my all-time favorite bonus feature is Charles Laughton Directs “The Night of the Hunter,” a two-and-a-half-hour documentary that has to go down as one of the most interesting behind-the-scenes films ever made. I had never even heard of this until I picked up the Night of the Hunter disc. It literally shows something that I’ve never seen before: tons of footage of a director in the midst of working with his actors during takes. While actors are performing, you hear Charles Laughton (a legendary actor directing his only film) guiding the cast through every line in basically every shot, take after take after take. It’s like being on set next to a perfectionist director while he meticulously sculpts the performances in his masterpiece. (And oh, poor Shelley Winters. “Do it again! Do it again! Less air in between! Go ahead Mitch! Look at her! Shelley, look up now and say ‘blessss ussss all.’ Yes, that’s it, Shelley!!”)"

"There is something faintly off-putting about this book’s subtitle. We live in a world where the obsession with music’s past threatens to overwhelm its present, where the only music magazines that sell in any quantity deal in heritage rock, where virtually the only TV coverage of music comes via retrospective documentaries: the story of modern pop has been told and retold until it’s been reduced to a series of tired anecdotes and over-familiar landmarks. But Yeah Yeah Yeah’s brilliance lies in the personal, idiosyncratic route Bob Stanley takes through the past: for him, the modern pop era begins not with Elvis or “Rock Around the Clock”, but the release of Johnnie Ray’s 1954 album Live at the London Palladium, the first time a screaming teenage audience had been heard on record in the UK. He devotes more space to 1970 one-hit wonders Edison Lighthouse than to Led Zeppelin, delivers a withering verdict on some surprising sacred cows – Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, Steely Dan – and is great at unearthing a forgotten quote that challenges what you might call the authorised version of events: at the height of the 1967’s Summer of Love, he finds the Who’s Pete Townshend not boggling at the new frontiers mapped out by psychedelia, but grumpily complaining that “people aren’t jiving in the listening boxes in record shops any more like we did to a Cliff Richard ‘newie’”. Stanley has a way of tackling well-worn topics – not least the Beatles – from unlikely angles, and of talking about artists you’ve never heard of with a contagious enthusiasm that makes hearing them seem like a matter of urgency. Best of all, he makes you laugh out loud while getting directly to the heart of the matter. The lugubrious late 70s output of Pink Floyd sounds like music made by people “who hated being themselves”. The punk-era Elvis Costello sang “like he was standing in a fridge”, and the experience of listening to novelty ska revivalists Bad Manners is “like being on a waltzer when you’ve had three pints and desperately need the toilet”. If you’ve ever heard them, you’ll know exactly what he means."