Audience

Final helping of the Wachowskis' techno-shock triptych

Dancing Dracula doesn't suck

There's something novel about this concept: the soundtrack of a book. While the realistic word for it is probably "cross-marketing", the hapless dreamers among us can ponder: are we supposed to listen to the relevant song while reading Hornby's chapter on it? Even if we don't possess posh headphones like the pretty model on the sleeve (entirely inappropriate unless the album is also a bottle of conditioner), are we to aim for a music-literature 'synergy' experience? I've just tried skimming Little Dorrit while headbanging to lggy and, frankly, it doesn't work.

Filmed this summer at Madison Square Garden, this performance confirms Eddie Vedder's Seattle crew as one of the most exciting bands of their generation. Driven by Vedder's intense presence, they move easily from full-throttle punk attack to brooding ballad, and attain a communal thrall equalled only by The Boss in full flight. Ben Harper and Buzzcocks feature, but it's the electricity between the stage and audience that's truly special.

All four movies from the interstellar belly-bursting-baddie franchise in extended form, plus five discs of extras

There are few bands, it seems, as disaster-prone as Shack. Ravaged by narcotics, crippled by debt (the sleevenotes to their third album HMS Fable infamously thanked Cash Converters) and nearly torpedoed by missing master tapes and missed opportunities, this Liverpool outfit clearly monopolise the anti-Midas touch. Matters were not helped three years ago when London Records pulled the contractual plug as well.

DIRECTED BY Ridley Scott STARRING Sigourney Weaver, John Hurt, Ian Holm, Yaphet Kotto, Hatry Dean Stanton Opened October 31, Cert 15, 115 mins Scott's franchise-launching 1979 future-shocker is one of those rare, pure, primal films that works as both highbrow modern myth and trouser-soiling midnight movie.

Flawed, fascinating, atypical Britflick

Re-emergence of jazz-folk classic from Chicago tunesmith

The best of compilation: a time to reflect upon a career, including even the early mishaps that eventually shape one's body of work. That's how it should be, anyway. It's telling reflection on the control freakery and uptight nature of Primal Screen that they've chosen, like some pampered footballer or insecure soap star, to relate a sanitised autobiography with Dirty Hits, ignoring their early but substantial first recordings as both fey indie janglers and one-dimensional rockers.