With its subdued emotional tone and superbly subtle performances, Jindabyne is the kind of film you have to be in the right mood for. If you get onto its low-key but ultimately powerful wavelength, you'll find much to admire in this Australian adaptation of Raymond Carver's short story "So Much Water So Close to Home. " The same story (available in the Carver collection What We Talk About When We Talk About Love) was previously adapted as a segment of Robert Altman's Short Cuts, but here it's been given a decidedly indigenous spin, focusing on the emotional fallout that occurs when four men discover the half-naked body of a 19-year-old Aboriginal woman while fishing in a remote river near their home town of Jindabyne, on the border of outback country in New South Wales. Stewart (Gabriel Byrne) was the one who discovered the body on a sunny Friday afternoon, but he and his buddies didn't report their discovery until two days later, resulting in a local news scandal and deep resentments from the Aboriginal locals. Worse yet, the incident dredges up a storm of emotions in Stewart's wife, Claire (Laura Linney), who's still recovering from a marital separation and post-partum depression following the birth of their young son. Simmering guilt, familial tensions, and strained friendships threaten to tear these residents of Jindabyne apart, and director Ray Lawrence (making only his third film since 1985's Bliss and 2001's underrated Lantana) does a remarkable job of exploring mysteries of human behavior that are slowly resolved as the drama unfolds. Jindabyne is not the kind of film one watches for light entertainment-its deliberate pacing and deep-rooted themes must be appreciated with careful attention-but it's a mature and richly observant study of people in crisis, whether they're aware of it or not, or even ready to admit it. -Jeff Shannon.

The acknowledged inspiration for The X-Files, and the basis for an updated 2005 network version, Kolchak: The Night Stalker was a short-lived 1974 series spun off from a pair of extremely popular made-for-TV movies about the supernatural adventures of dogged newspaper reporter Carl Kolchak (Darren McGavin). Though plagued by low ratings and critical brickbats, the show has cultivated a huge cult following over the past three decades, which has given rise to this three-disc set, which compiles all 20 episodes of the show. Though none of the episodic stories matches the suspense and writing strength of the Night Stalker or Night Strangler movies, TV horror fans will appreciate the parade of interesting and inventive monsters encountered by Kolchak (including a witches' coven in "The Trevi Collection"; an Aztec cult in "Legacy of Terror"; a Hindu Demon in "Horror in the Heights," which was penned by Hammer Films scribe Jimmy Sangster; and a headless biker in "Chopper," an episode deemed in extreme poor taste by Stephen King and co-written by Robert Zemeckis, Bob Gale, and Sopranos creator David Chase). McGavin is of course topnotch as Kolchak, and he's well-matched by Simon Oakland as his hot-tempered boss; guest stars include Scatman Crothers, James Gregory, Phil Silvers, Eric Braeden, Tom Skerritt, and Richard Kiel as the monster in two back-to-back episodes. Sadly, no extras accompany this fun collection of Kolchak's creepiest cases. -Paul Gaita.

Repeated viewings can't dispel the shock of the final scene in this classic 1941 romantic mystery-a brief but disorienting confrontation that suddenly inverts the heroine's mounting conviction that she's married a murderer, forcing us to reconsider virtually every scene and line of dialogue that's preceded it. It's a masterful coup de grace for director Alfred Hitchcock, who has built a puzzle around the corrosive power of suspicion, threaded with deft ambiguities that toy with dramatic conventions and character archetypes in nearly every frame. As embodied by Joan Fontaine, who nabbed an Oscar in this second outing with the director, Lina McLaidlaw is a buttoned-up, bookish heiress whose prim exterior conceals longings for a more engaged emotional life. Her solution materializes in the darkly handsome Johnnie Aysgarth, a gambler, womaniser, and spendthrift who flirts, then pursues, and soon marries her. As Aysgarth, Cary Grant is both irresistible and sinister, capable of deceit and petty theft, as well as grander designs on his bride's impending fortune. Lina's passion for Johnnie is clouded by each new revelation about his apparent dishonesty, from clandestine gambling to real estate development schemes; more troubling are clues implicating him in the death of his best friend, and the prospect that Johnnie may be slowly poisoning Lina herself. By the time we see him ascending a darkened staircase with a suspicious glass of milk, an image made all the more indelible through the spectral glow the director captures in the glass, the evidence seems damning indeed. In fact, even as Hitchcock stacks the deck against Johnnie, and takes full advantage of Grant's skill at conveying such menace, the director also dots his landscape with visual clues to Lina's own neurotic (and erotic) obsessions. The final scene forces us to reevaluate her behavior while leaving enough of a cloud over Johnnie to rob him, and us, of a complete exoneration. It's a wicked, unsettling payoff to a brilliantly executed thriller. [+]

Superior to Martin Scorsese's punishing 1991 remake, this 1962 thriller directed by J. Lee Thompson (The Guns of Navarone) stars Robert Mitchum as a creepy ex-con angry at the attorney (Gregory Peck) whom he believes is responsible for his incarceration. After Mitchum makes clear his plans to harm Peck's family, a fascinating game of crisscrossing ethics and morality takes place. Where the more recent version seemed trapped in its explicitness, Thompson's film accomplishes a lot with a more economical and telling use of violence. The result is a richer character study with some Hitchcockian overtones regarding the nature of guilt. -Tom Keogh.

Clive Owen, Monica Bellucci, Paul Giamatti, Greg Bryk, Stephen McHattie, Ramona Pringle

It's important to note that Spike Lee's drama is not titled Son of Sam. Summer of Sam doesn't chronicle the killer as much as the times: the blistering hot summer of 1977 when the Big Apple's psyche was taken hostage by the lone gunman. We spot the killer (Michael Badalucco) in his mad ramblings but the film centres on two friends from the Bronx: Vinny and Ritchie (John Leguizamo and Adrien Brody). Vinny and his wife, Dionna (Mira Sorvino), bury a bad marriage (he cheats at a drop of a hat) in the disco halls of the area. Ritchie returns to the neighbourhood sporting punk hair, punk clothes and a British accent that immediately infuriates the neighbourhood boys oozing far too much testosterone. Cops, local mob leaders and the guys on the street all have ideas who the killer is: everyone from neighbourhood loners to Reggie Jackson (in the midst of World Series heroism) are on their misguided lists of suspects. When the film looks at how the citizens faced the fearful times, Lee scores with his energetic camerawork and pop soundtrack. Yet the film is banal in its domestic dramatics, taking large detours into Vinny's home sex life (stagnant) and Ritchie's extracurricular activities. One of the marriage arguments-though real and well acted-is so long and cliché-ridden you wonder if someone fell asleep in the editing booth. Add the point-blank killings and non-stop vulgarity and you have Lee's most unpleasant film. [+]