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The film focuses on the trial of French saint and icon, Joan of Arc, a young girl who helped France win several victories during The Hundred Years War in the Middle Ages.Now imprisoned by the English and on trial for heresy by a group of clergymen, Joan fights to justify and defend both her faith and her unique gift. However, the clergy are determined to break her at any cost.

Leading the charge is Maria Falconetti as Joan, who captures just how out of her depth and terrified Joan is in this situation, often with a distraught look on her face, while still giving the role a sense of dignity and commitment, much like Joan's to her faith. The supporting cast is made up of the various clergy and guards, most of whom are of older age, and enhanced by the black and white, giving their pock-marked faces an almost demonic feel. They almost become living gargoyles, and only enhance further just how isolated and helpless our lead is.On a technical level, Dreyer goes for an unorthodox approach for the time.If you've seen any silent films, or just glanced at pictures, they often have the camera pulled far back, more akin to recording a stage show. However, Dreyer goes up close and personal, often utilizing close-ups to give a claustrophobic feel, and combined with some sharp lighting and the lack of make-up on the actors, create an uncomfortable and tense atmosphere. Musically, the film has never had an officially confirmed soundtrack, so there exist many versions. The one I'm basing this review on is the Criterion version, which uses Richard Einhorn oratorio 'Voices of Light', a haunting choral piece that compliments the religious themes and imagery perfectly and adds a surreal dimension to Dreyer's uncomfortable visuals, turning the film into a sensory experience that envelops you utterly.

Naturally, with no spoken dialogue, most of the narrative has to be conveyed by the actors and a couple of title cards here and there. However, don't be fooled by what may sound this archaic: it's actually very effective. The reason being is quite simple: it's a very emotional story, both in terms of reaction as well as presentation. There is an almost beautiful directness that perfectly lets in on how our characters, mainly Joan, feel and think as the trial goes on. Simple nods of the head or movement of eyes tell us what, often times, dialogue can't or if it tries, it's not very effective. Furthermore, it allows us to inhabit Joan's skin and feel what she feels. This is especially poignant when the camera is not on her, and because of the near constant close-ups, you almost begin to feel like you're the one on trial, surrounded by all this angry men. It really cranks up the tension and unease as you watch, which is, frankly, really impressive for a film this old.

What's more, despite the presence of religion, it's not that mystical or fantastical. Rather, the film is more about belief, and how it can be wielded: Joan's belief in her divinity, the clergy's belief in her heresy, the belief Joan instills in others, who may or may not betray her as the story goes on. Regardless if God is real or not, it's the fact that Joan's faith is so incredibly strong that she ultimately is willing to die for it that is the core of the story. This is enhanced by the fact that she isn't some kind of super-woman: Joan does get frightened, and even at one point, comes close to completely breaking down when the pressure gets to her, allowing us to see the human being behind the legend.

However, there are gripes. As I mentioned before, this particular version's musical score can be a little overpowering at times, but even watching a different version, there are still some little 'hiccups'. The clergy, though effectively intimidating, are not much more than one-dimensional villains, and little is made of the richness that is the debate of which side truly knows more about Christianity and faith, though you can write it off as simply being constricted by the time the film was made in. It's well worth at least one viewing for both aficionados of this era, as well as newcomers to film history

A satirical takedown of American Old West mythology, Altman and Alan Rudolph give us a window into the goings on in Buffalo Bill's legendary Wild West Show, and the duel of wills between the showman and Chief Sitting Bull. It's a battle of true history versus fabricated, intercut with a few sidestories and incidental events, as per Altman's love of multistrand narrative.

There's a lot to admire in BB&TIOSBHL - the cast are all game, with Newman as a smug, up-himself version of Bill who is starting to crumble under his own persona; the attention to detail in costumes, sets and choreography sell this little 'proto-Hollywood' of the Wild West Show and highlight the revisionist themes at play, and then there's the satire. Like Altman took the army and music to task, so too does he with America's love of romanticizing its western expansion and subjugation of natives. Where Sitting Bull represents a true, painful history and carries himself with true nobility, wisdom and grace, Bill's show is gaudy, sanitized and full of hot air. Sitting Bull is able to outfox Bill constantly by, in essence, being everything he claims to be and is not. This in turn leaves Bill at a crossroads of denial, doubt and bearing the weight of what he has created. In some ways, the satire remains extremely relevant, given the cult of celebrity and how media can be contorted to present particular versions of events.

Unfortunately, for all that's on its mind, BB&TIOSBHL is really dry and seems undecided if its comedy or drama. Scenes of Bill having breakdowns and references to the cruelties visited upon the Sioux clash with goofier stuff like Bill's opera singer lovers and various camp antics, mired in a tone that starts out as more absurd (exemplified by the opening Playbill-style credits) but remains mostly on the dour side. It always seems like scenes should go higher, being more tense or funnier, and yet never are. In addition, Burt Lancaster is wasted as little more than a glorified thematic exposition machine as the man who helped build Bill up, and never has that meaningful an impact on the rest of the narrative.

BB&TIOSBHL could've been one of Altman's best, a fusion of McCabe and Nashville, but falls short due to what seems like, weirdly, a lack of a cohesive vision for the project. The lofty screenplay lacks punch and wit, exacerbated by the slow pace. Only for Altman and Western satire junkies only.

Past and future Classic Game Room host Mark Bussler enjoyed a secondary career of making direct-to-DVD documentaries during the 2000s. One such film covered the 1893 World's Fair, a grand and gaudy celebration of the achievements, and vices, of 19th century America and her global neighbours.

Narrated by the sublime Gene Wilder, the film benefits from clear extensive research: Bussler shows us a wealth of archival material to paint a picture of the Fair. Photos, adverts, plans, sketches and even surviving artefacts like an Eidson phonograph. It's all fascinating... until you realize that's all there is. For a film, EXPO is decidedly non-cinematic and clearly made on a tight budget for a specific market at a specific time. Most of it, as another reviewer noted, plays out like a slick but undeniable Powerpoint presentation, which even Wilder's soothing delivery can't mask. What actual footage there is mostly flat stocks of animals or locations around present-day Chicago. There's a reenactment and a belly dancer, but not much else.

Without talking heads from relevant authorities, or much other footage to break it up, the documentary's pacing suffers for it and at nearly two hours is a bit long. By the end I certainly felt informed about the White City, but perhaps not as inspired or enthralled as I hoped to be, or Bussler likely intended. Worth checking out at least once for those with an interest in the era, but a pedestrian production for what was a celebration of human imagination.