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David Cronenberg's '80s gem Videodrome gets a proper digital version in a new Special Edition DVD from the Criterion Collection.

In the early '80s, just as the home revolution for movies was taking hold, Canadian director David Cronenberg turned his attention towards a tale of television gone awry. Already somewhat infamous for a run of intellectual gore movies such as Scanners and The Brood, this surrealistic story starring James Woods would be just as provocative and innovative as the filmmaker's earlier work - while at the same time extending his trademark vision into some entirely new realms of cinema. Not at all a commercial success at the time of its release (though this reviewer at least has fond memories of seeing this one at the fourplex), Cronenberg's film has stood the test of time to remain one of his most celebrated works. Fittingly, then, the craftsmen at the Criterion Collection have devoted themselves to a brand new Special Edition of this unique masterwork, with the result being easily one of the best domestic DVD releases of the year 2004.

Quickly synopsizing the plot of Videodrome is no easy task, as the film's internal leaps of logic are both a bit confused as well as easily spoiled. In the main, though, the plot revolves around a sleazy softcore television entrepreneur named Max Renn (James Woods, in what is perhaps the best role of his career) who is on the look for new material to place on an independent cable channel. When Harlan (Peter Dvorsky), a sardonic technician who works at the station, intercepts a strange pirate satellite transmission Max is intrigued by the rawness of the broadcast. Identified only by the strange moniker that gives the film its name, this show Videodrome at first appears to be a realistic depiction of torture and sadism wherein unspeakable acts grimly take place.

Intrigued by the nastiness he sees and believing that the material may be just the sort of edgy product that he's looking for, Max begins to seek out just where the show is coming from. Along the way he meets up with Nicki Brand (played by Blondie aka Deborah Harry), a radio personality whose own sexual tastes run towards the dark side. Also entering the offbeat plot are personalities like Professor Brian O'Blivion (Jack Creley), a McLuhanesque pundit who runs a mission devoted to ensuring that people bathe themselves in cathode rays, his daughter Bianca (Sonja Smits) who oversees this video shelter and Barry Convex (Leslie Carlson), a smarmy eyeglass salesman whose slick exterior may just hide some ugliness within.

To detail the film any more finely than this would be to do a disservice to its many outr� machinations; but suffice it to say that once Max is exposed to the Videodrome transmissions that his life takes an unforeseen turn or two. Entering into the nightmarish world of snuff TV, Max's physical and mental reality warps into an almost unrecognizable form. Cronenberg's themes quickly move to the forefront and the concerns that dominate the artist's work are given free reign - viewers familiar with the director's body of work will recognize old chestnuts such as the unreliability of our corporeal presence and the influence that human technology has on our physical nature. Never one to underthink a project, the filmmaker here piles idea on top of idea and layers reality in a multivariate way that is both unsettling and exhilarating; though the film only runs a mere hour and a half, it holds within itself more philosophical depth than a hundred average genre efforts.

Central to the success of Videodrome is the performance of primary actor James Woods, whose dramatic work here is truly stunning. Well known for a career that often strays from the mainstream, Woods is perfectly cast in this one as a slightly shifty purveyor of cable erotica. The paranoia and diffidence necessary to make this part believable is conveyed perfectly with every act in which the actor engages - and since he's in just about every scene, this certainly adds to the film's watchability. The subjective nature of the film's narrative demands that the audience identify with its fairly unsavory (though not unlikable) protagonist; and through his confident but somewhat psychotic turn, Woods gives the movie an invaluably solid core.

Other aspects of this production are worth mentioning, as the whole outing seems to excel in so many areas. Overall, Videodrome is the ideal vehicle for Cronenberg's intellectual flights of fancy as the thriller framework gives the director an arena in which he can explore the patented obsessions of flesh and machine that so often reappear in his films. The assured incisiveness of the filmmaker's vision ensures that the at times incoherent plot never falls apart completely, and there's little doubt that it's this guiding hand that hones the project's finer points. Also key to the film's excellence are multiple contributions made by members of the crew in cinematic areas that might easily be overlooked: the disturbing synthesized score by composer Howard Shore, Mark Irwin's amazingly lit cinematography, Carol Spier's multilevel production design, Michael Lennick's video effects and Rick Baker's fantastically believable latex work all combine in the end to help make this one a true triumph.

As the film is one of the great genre efforts of the 1980s, aficionados may well have been concerned as to how this prescient piece would be handled this time around in the digital realm. With Criterion in charge, I'm happy to report that the Special Edition goes above and beyond the norm in presenting this horror classic. At base is the usual pristine audio and visual treatment that the company prides itself on, showing off Videodrome in a beautiful transfer that looks and sounds just amazing. But it's in the extras department that this release really outdoes itself - there's so much to digest that it'll sure take you some hours to get through it all. In the commentary department come two edited tracks, one with discussion from Cronenberg himself and DP Mark Irwin, and the other with comments by actors James Woods and Deborah Harry. As always, Cronenberg's discussion is salient and insightful as he dissects his own past with perception and detachment. Woods's remembrances of the production are also interestingly knowledgeable and help to deepen the audience's understanding of the enigmatic Max Renn.

But that's certainly not all you'll get if you pick up this two-disc package: also included is Camera, a short film made in the year 2000 by Cronenberg starring the actor Les Carlson (who plays Barry Convex in Videodrome). Additionally, there's Forging the New Flesh, a half hour documentary on the effects associated with the film; The Effects Men, an audio interview with Rick Baker and Michael Lennick that also concerns the special visual components on display; and Fear on Film, a promotional 26 minute roundtable discussion made for Universal in 1982 wherein Cronenberg, John Carpenter and John Landis discuss the horror genre and their own work. Not to mention the trailers (a couple of which are hilariously bad '80s style abominations that seem to indicate that bad marketing was likely a factor in the tepid box office reaction to the movie) and the literally hundreds of stills that are contained here covering many different parts of the production. Is that it? Of course not, as Criterion also finds it within themselves to toss in the full cut of Samurai Dreams (a piece of softcore that Max and his partners screen briefly in the film itself but that is presented in its entirety here), some footage from a virtual reality helmet that Max dons at one point in the proceedings and seven minutes worth of the transmissions that make up the Videodrome broadcasts inside the main feature. For good measure, they've also lumped in commentaries with all of this material, meaning that the only complaint that anyone could possibly have about this release is that it neglects to also add in the deleted scenes from the television cut that was made for the movie's small screen debut. (Oh, and once you're done watching all this other stuff, be sure and read through the entire 40 page booklet with its eye-opening essay on the flick by Video Watchdog scribe Tim Lucas.)

But you can't have everything, now can you? There's surely no reason why that slight omission should make anyone question Criterion's handling of this great property; as they've done so much to detail the reasons for the film's lasting reputation here that anyone who considers themselves a student of either horror or Cronenberg needs to rush right out and pick this one up. And the value of this two-disc set goes far beyond simply the overstuffed nature of the movie's treatment, with the ability to revisit this excellent film some 20 years after its theatrical exhibition allowing one to see just how keen a rumination on sex, violence and technology it really is. It's also fascinating to have a chance to compare Cronenberg's two-decade-old treatise to similar recent films such as Olivier Assayas' demonlover - for this viewer a back-to-back double feature of these two works is certainly in the offing some brittle autumn night. As this has always been my personal favorite of the Canadian director�s films, just a basic version with only a director's voiceover would have easily satisfied me - but instead what's been released is happily the DVD release of the year thus far. Long live the new flesh, indeed.