WHEN THE HOLD STEADY sing "Raise a toast to Saint Joe Strummer / I think he might have been our only decent teacher" on "Constructive Summer," it's yet another hosanna shouted on behalf of the former Clash leader, who's been all but deified as pure punk god.
But what Julien Temple shows in his documentary "Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten" is neither a saint nor a sinner; he's just a man who cared, sometimes too much, sometimes too little. But what's certain is Strummer's death in 2002, at age 50, was a shocking blow to the family, friends and fans of a man who had finally rekindled the passions that drove him in the first place.
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THE FOUR-DVD limited edition of "Mad Men's" first season arrives in a tin box shaped like a gigantic Zippo lighter, which is a particularly apt choice of packaging. There's a cigarette in every scene of the AMC series. The characters constantly exhale thick plumes of smoke — not as a sign of rebellion, but of conformity, as common as a martini lunch or a nudging remark about a woman's backside.
Obviously, "Mad Men" is not set in the present day, but in 1960, when smoking and casual sexism were not only socially acceptable, but openly encouraged. And for the purposes of the show, Madison Avenue — specifically the offices of fictional advertising firm Sterling Cooper — is the nexus of all the bad habits of the times.
Randy account managers cavort indiscreetly with gossipy secretaries in sleek offices and smoke-filled boardrooms. Their mix of business and pleasure is overseen by SC creative director Don Draper (an impossibly handsome Jon Hamm) who, after a long day at the office, either visits his bohemian mistress in Greenwich Village or takes the train back to his gently neurotic wife (an impossibly vulnerable January Jones) in the suburbs.
WHEN FOX RESURRECTED "FAMILY GUY" from the dead in 2005, it opened up a window for other canceled shows to jump through. The first to reemerge was another Fox and Adult Swim staple, "Futurama."
After Fox effectively canned "Futurama" in 2003, the Cartoon Network's Adult Swim began airing the show's repeats and the show — with the help of DVD sales — became a cult favorite, just like "Family Guy" before it. Then, in 2005, a bidding war emerged for "Futurama" repeats and potential new episodes, with Comedy Central winning out.
But while "Family Guy" has relied on the same old tricks since its re-emergence, "Futurama" creator Matt Groening decided to try something new: Instead of returning to the traditional season format, Groening went with direct-to-DVD films, which would then be recut and edited into 16 regular episodes for broadcast on Comedy Central.
This clever move has helped the revived "Futurama" not be a caricature of its former self, at least for the time being — something you can't say about "Family Guy."
Last year, the first of four films, "Futurama: Bender's Big Score," was released and its episodes aired on Comedy Central this spring. Last Tuesday, the second installment, "Futurama: Beast With a Billion Backs," hit retail shelves.
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NEITHER AS WELL KNOWN nor arguably as influential a musical figure as Ray Charles or Johnny Cash, Ian Curtis is nevertheless a fascinating subject for a biopic. An awkward boy from the tenements of Manchester, he married young, formed the seminal postpunk band Joy Division, began an affair with a Belgian journalist, was diagnosed with epilepsy, and hanged himself in 1980, at the age of 23.
Seemingly validating the despair and alienation he expressed through his lyrics, Curtis' suicide made him a poetic figure to many fans and, more than 20 years later his music has inspired a new generation of bands like Interpol and the Killers.
Curtis' legend tends to obscure the flesh-and-blood man, making objective biography crucial but difficult. In the past year, two films — Grant Gee's documentary "Joy Division" and Anton Corbijn's biopic "Control" — portray him as a complex individual torn between his staid married life and the unknown pleasures of rock stardom.

WATCHING "HELL'S GROUND," Pakistan's first slasher flick, feels like splitting open the head of an obsessive film buff.
The movie is crammed to bursting with references to American horror and cult flicks like "Pink Flamingos," "Night of the Living Dead" and "Friday the 13th," not to mention allusions to less well-known international fare like "Maula Jat" and "The Living Corpse."
Sure enough, writer/producer/director Omar Ali Khan is a former film critic who funded his first movie with profits from his ice cream shop in Islamabad, which is decorated with movie memorabilia from Hollywood and its Pakistan equivalent, Lollywood.
Originally titled "Zibahkhana" (which is not a direct translation), "Hell's Ground" hits all the horror-movie marks, beginning with its familiar set-up: A group of teens lie to their parents to drive five hours to see a rock concert.
Of course they make a wrong turn and are set upon by zombies. Of course there's a homicidal maniac on the loose. Of course that nice old woman hides a horrible secret. The movie is completely derivative, but that seems to be Khan's intention.

SCIENCE FICTION HAS A LONG HISTORY of turning real-world menaces into aliens and monsters. The flying saucers of 1950s thrillers like "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" played on Red Scare fears, the emotionless Martians all but explicit stand-ins for communists. Even today, a show like "Battlestar Galactica" examines current political issues in the void of space, playing out the war on terror with humans and Cylons.
The puzzling joy of watching the first season of "The Invaders" is trying to figure out what issue it's turning into a metaphor. The show, produced by Quinn Martin, ran for just two seasons in 1967 and 1968 yet had an enormous impact, such that in 2004, TV Guide placed main character David Vincent at #6 on its 25 Greatest Sci-Fi Legends list.

STEP ASIDE, JACK BLACK. National Geographic is going kung-fu fighting. This weekend, the museum celebrates two new China exhibits with a kung-fu film festival sure to make martial arts geeks salivate. Kung-Fu Cinema: Masters of Shaolin features three classic films by the legendary Shaw brothers, known for their accurate depictions of traditional martial arts through fast and furious fight scenes.
The festival marks a rare and very cool opportunity to see three hard-to-find classics on the big screen. The first two — "Shaolin Temple" (1976) and "Executioner From Shaolin" (1977) — aren't even available commercially in the U.S., and the third — "The 36th Chamber of Shaolin" (1978) — is widely considered to be the greatest kung-fu movie of all time. All three have been re-released by Celestial Pictures with high picture and sound quality and without any of the bad dubbing we've come to associate with '70s chop-socky films.

WHEN WE FIRST MEET JOHN J. RAMBO, the Vietnam vet played in four movies by Sylvester Stallone, he hardly resembles the comically muscled action-movie icon he would eventually become.
In "First Blood," the 1982 film that launched the lucrative franchise, Stallone plays him as a down-and-out drifter with no home, job or purpose, bearing the psychological toll of military training.
When we last see Rambo, in the 2008 film titled after the character, he is a man grown old and even smaller, but with a measurable amount of peace and even wisdom. The last shot, of the vet walking down a dirt road to a horse farm, is deliberately beautiful, offsetting 25 years of gore and violence that preceded it.
"THIS IS A STORY about the future ... but not the very distant future." So intones the narrator of "Tobor the Great," launching into a lengthy prologue full of stock footage and ponderous musings about man's innate drive to explore outer space.
Of course , the movie actually has very little to do with space travel. Originally released in 1954 — 15 years before man walked on the moon — this black-and-white sci-fi matinee artifact is a more earthbound tale of American scientists working on top-secret technology and the vaguely European baddies who'll do anything to steal it.
The name Tobor is, as you've probably already guessed, "robot" spelled backward, as the movie reminds us repeatedly. It's a funky-looking man-machine with a big head and what appear to be roller skates on his feet. Powered by ESP (yes, ESP), it is supposedly able to develop "every human emotion," as the movie tagline promises, but he doesn't have much to do but crash through walls, play flight-simulation video games and drive a stick shift.
DAVID LYNCH is a weird one for DVDs.
While most filmmakers cram their releases with bonus features, Lynch values mystery. Occasionally, he throws in a making-of or a trailer, but he generally disdains commentary tracks. "Mulholland Drive" even lacked scene selection, forcing viewers to watch the film in order.
That a new edition of his 1997 creepfest "Lost Highway" comes with no special features is neither surprising nor disappointing. (There is scene selection, which shouldn't be taken for granted, and interactive menus.) All you need, Lynch insists, is the movie itself.
In the case of "Lost Highway," that's saying a lot. Upon its release, the movie was largely dismissed by critics as being too opaque and mannered, with split characters and an impenetrable storyline that doubles back on itself and eat its tail.
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