Steel This Book: Criterion, Arrow, and the Golden Age of Home Video Packaging

[In the interest of making sure this site has content, I’ve been reposting a few things I’ve self-published on places like Medium and Tumblr. The original can be found here.]

Every new story or essay in late March 2020 is inevitably about the novel coronavirus and the disease it causes, COVID-19. I can’t avoid that the same way I’m avoiding human contact by “social distancing”, a life-altering phrase that’s also basically guaranteed to wind up as the answer to a Trivial Pursuit question in the year 2040. So while I’ve been teasing this essay in my head long before the pandemic struck, it has, like every other concept on Earth, been twisted by current events. Not necessarily in a bad way, though, as sick as most of us are of reading about coronavirus. What started off in my mind as a silly and frivolous piece about how Criterion and Arrow are raising the bar on home video packaging has become a piece on how inanimate objects can bring us comfort in times of trial and loneliness.

For me, movies are my life. I watch them, I love them, I study them as much as time allows. I’m single, I live alone, and I don’t mind saying that movies are my company much of the time. But while many, especially nowadays, are touting streaming, I’ve always been a fan of, and a sucker for, tangible home video releases. And home video releases are getting better and better in terms of the way they’re presented.

(I’m not talking about Steelbooks, by the way. Steelbooks are awful. They’re the Marvel Cinematic Universe of video packaging: popular, slick, and lacking both style and substance. They drag the medium as a whole down.)

Last night (and yes, this is very weird) I slept with my copy of Criterion’s “Ingmar Bergman’s Cinema” box set. It’s a comfort in a tumultuous time to feel something so permanent. There’s very little more permanent in this world than a collection of the works of Ingmar Bergman, particularly Criterion’s towering (literally, it’s huge) release of a towering figure of cinema. It’s incredibly, reassuringly solid (unlike the flimsy, ugly James Bond box set I recently bought so I could write about the series in anticipation of the now-delayed No Time To Die). Some people have stuffed animals, I have collector’s editions (and stuffed animals). I’ve spent more money on home video than on any other non-essential in my life, and keep in mind I also play Magic: The Gathering.

One of Criterion’s other major releases of late is their colossal “Godzilla: The Showa Era Films, 1954–1975”. This particular release, spine number 1000, comes as a fittingly tall art book full of original art for each of the 15 films presented therein. It’s a vibrant, gorgeous piece of home video art, and one that ought to set the standard for boutique home video outlets going forward.

But it’s not just Criterion’s massive centerpiece sets. Smaller releases have gotten excellent treatment of late. Godzilla is not, in fact, their first book-shaped release; spine number 948 is The Princess Bride, a natural candidate for an illustrated cloth book. Their Karel Zeman trilogy (spines 1015–1017) features lovely art and three pop-up illustrations, something they tried before with the individual release of Godzilla. The Zeman trilogy is better. And while I love both that and the “Trilogia de Guillermo del Toro” Blu-ray release (a stunning, unique folding design fit for a set of macabre fairy tales), nothing beats Criterion’s release of Abbas Kiarostami’s Koker Trilogy. The nested design mirrors the increasing layers through which the trilogy views reality and the use of windows cut into the design is magnificent. With Criterion’s best releases recently, form beautifully mirrors content in a way that enhances the experience. Streaming has nothing on this.

Much like Criterion, Arrow (Criterion for weirdos) has stepped up the packaging game of late as well. Their release of the first three Hellraiser films stands out. Unfortunately I missed out on this at the time of release, and it would now cost hundreds of dollars. Still, I’ve seen it in person and it’s exquisite. Ditto their release of Crimson Peak, or, one I did get my hands on, the “George A. Romero: Between Night and Dawn” box set, which contains three unsung Romero gems: There’s Always Vanilla, Season of the Witch, and The Crazies. It could only be better if it included Martin. There’s also an upcoming Alejandro Jodorowsky set that I hope is released in a region in which I can watch it, and yet, it would almost be worth it even in an alternate region. That’s part of the point here.

The word “collector”, and specifically the phrase “Collector’s Edition” (or choose your favorite variation: Limited Edition, Nth Anniversary Edition, etc) is banded about a lot for items that don’t deserve it. Anything can be collected, but Criterion, Arrow, and other boutique distributors are making things worth collecting as much for their presentation as for their content. And while I’d take a mediocre release of a great film over a great release of a mediocre film, there’s no reason the two are mutually exclusive.

I miss theatergoing as much as any aspect of life before coronavirus. I’m clinging to memories of things like 35mm Film Day at the Sie in the hopes that such things are not a relic of the past. There’s a physical quality to 35mm, just like all the box sets I’ve mentioned. At its best, film connects with one’s body as much as one’s mind: viscerally, literally, completely. I’m reminded of the experience of seeing Uncut Gems at the Sie recently with my best friend. Both of us cinephiles, it’s a chance to connect amidst a now long-distance friendship, and the guttural sensations of the Safdie’s film shook me to my core. I recently bought the film on Blu-ray with a nice slipcover featuring some lovely, understated artwork.

Meanwhile, VHS continues to rise in popularity. While the resurgence of vinyl is more comparable to the tenacity of 35mm film, VHS does resemble records in terms of the way people are rediscovering an older format. I’m not a VHS collector (yet), but I understand the appeal of the era VHS represents. If Steelbooks are the equivalent of Marvel movies, the trend for VHS is the equivalent of the best kind of trash cinema.

Streaming may be the watchword right now (and for good reason; streaming is relatively affordable where collecting DVDs and Blu-rays is not, and anything that keeps people at home is a good thing), but I’ve been heartened by the surge in boutique home video, whether it’s Steelbooks, the Criterion Collection, Arrow, Vinegar Syndrome, Severin, Kino Lorber, etc, etc. I love to see worthwhile films presented with love, care, and artistry, and I’m not alone. The sight of regular DVDs and Blu-rays at Target packaged with detachable art covers just goes to prove the appeal of aesthetically and artistically pleasing releases; Criterion style has trickled up to the mainstream.

Right now, my home video collection is in a very real way keeping me safe and sane in quarantine. Not just the films themselves, but the way they take up space.