Reviews

Two-CD compilation of '80s coulda-beens

Indispensable double-disc compilation of Man In Black's Sun years

Elmer Bernstein's classic score to the 1960 western, perhaps the last hurrah of traditional, pre-graphic-violence heroism. The film tanked at first in the US before European plaudits prompted re-promotion, and the Oscar-nominated music wasn't officially released until as late as the '90s. The title theme's unmistakable, and the sleevenotes to this package reveal two cute ironies. That theme, licensed out, sold more cigarettes than any other tobacco ad. Second, Bernstein was outside a Barcelona café last year, sitting by one of those mechanical horses that kids ride. It played his tune.

Overblown epic by post-rock Coldplay

Ex-Blur man rediscovers Britpop roots

Startlingly different double-CD debut from precocious teen songsmith

De Niro continues to piss away his reputation

Mel Brooks' 1974 spoof western isn't a patch on The Producers or Young Frankenstein, due to a lacklustre script. What memorable moments there are come courtesy of Cleavon Little's hip black sheriff, Gene Wilder's alcoholic gunfighter, Madeline Kahn's faultless Marlene Dietrich impression and Slim Pickens busting up that infamous campfire farting scene.

In Arthur Penn's 1958 film The Left-Handed Gun, Billy The Kid (Paul Newman) was portrayed as a neurotic, self-destructive teen rebel who behaved like James Dean with a six-gun. Penn threw in the framing device of having a journalist follow Billy through his career of crime. Little Big Man (1970) also features a journalist looking to embroider the facts, but this time the writer meets his match in the shape of the wizened, 121-year-old Jack Crabb (Dustin Hoffman hidden behind several layers of make-up).

Sadly not long-lost footage from the '60s but film from a brace of reunion gigs in the mid-'90s by the rediscovered pop-art cult heroes. There's lots of playing the guitar with a violin bow (something the band's Eddie Phillips invented way before Jimmy Page). But the transformation from razor-sharp teenage mods to middle-aged beer bellies is cruel on the eye.