Even Dwarfs Started Small opens with a disquieting montage culminating in the image of a chicken eating another chicken (shades of Magritte's 1927 painting "Pleasure") that also features a young girl rending live birds with her teeth. Both actions speak to a sort of insensate savagery, the divorce between the Freudian Id and Ego so favoured by the surrealists--and in setting the film in a fictitious place populated entirely by the little people of the title, it touches on the surrealist belief that non-Western civilizations were closer to an undifferentiated nature. The story proper concerns the uprising of a "Prisoner"-like colony against an ineffectual, Kafkaesque godhead (Pepi Hermine) and the Institution that he represents. Rebelling against the imprisonment of leader Pepe (Gerd Gickel, tied to a chair throughout), the rebels devolve from a semi-organized protest into bedlam, crucifying monkeys, organizing cockfights, and, in one of the most hopeless conclusions in film, watching as rebel leader Hombre (Helmut Döring) laughs until he chokes at the sight of a camel.

The message seems to be not one of anti-revolution, but rather one of man's eternal struggle to live up to his better nature: of how something vital is always lost in interpretation to the baser instincts of lust and violence. I'm reminded of the beggar's banquet sequence in Buñuel's Viridiana and, more, of George Orwell's Animal Farm--far from exploitation, the all-dwarfs casting is essential to the poignancy of the piece, functioning as a way to at once distance the viewer literally and draw the viewer metaphorically. (It's a conceit underscored by the contents of a cigar box mid-film: insects on pins dressed as a wedding party.) In certain respects, Even Dwarfs Started Small is as unapologetic and affirming as Tod Browning's Freaks, and, by similarly assuming the point-of-view of the "freaks," Even Dwarfs Started Small turns the rest of society into the outcasts and monsters. As Herzog progresses as an artist, we'll find the idea of an individual forced by circumstance and nature to lay bare the contents of his lizard brain amidst ritual and ruins surfacing again and again, but even at the height of his artistry, there are few films in the director's portfolio as beautifully shot, scored, and composed as this one.

Anchor Bay does Even Dwarfs Started Small proud with a beautiful full-frame, pillarboxed transfer that preserves the film's original aspect ratio in anamorphic widescreen. The source print is free of defect almost all the way through, which, considering the title's age and budget, is a minor miracle. Meanwhile, the DD 2.0 mono audio reproduces Herzog's revolutionary, integral sound design with nary a pop or a crackle. A feature length commentary teaming Herzog, Anchor Bay's Norman Hill, and Crispin Glover (!) was first recorded for the 1999 release and sports a lot of the same revelations later set down by Paul Cronin in his indispensable Herzog on Herzog. I did like, however, Glover and Hill acting as interviewers, and in particular enjoyed Herzog saying that he was unnerved by the chickens because they were "profoundly stupid." Glover also writes liner notes for the keepcase insert.-Walter Chaw

1.33:1 (16x9); German mono; English subtitles (optional); DVD-9; 96 minutes; Anchor Bay

In Fata Morgana, German film historian Lotte Eisner reads passages from the Mayan creation mythology/history (the Popol Voh), the dual nature of which (fable and record) informs director Werner Herzog's own career-long obsession with rubbing out the line between documentary and fiction filmmaking. That focus on the nature of illusion finds its most oblique--and its most reasonable--manifestation in this, a film that began as a science-fiction project (and indeed, the shots of the Sahara resemble the shots of the alien's home planet in Nicolas Roeg's The Man Who Fell To Earth) and ends as something of a montage of landscapes and mirages set to Leonard Cohen tunes and Eisner's narration. If sci-fi is the contemplation of identity, time, and space, however, the non-narrative Fata Morgana fits the bill perfectly. Opening with a long, almost stunned contemplation of the jetstream's role in landing airplanes, the picture proceeds with increasingly hallucinogenic images of the blasted Saharan countryside. It's a place littered with plane wrecks and animal corpses and, eventually, pockets of humanity lined up against dirt huts, posed in dazed aspects of perseverance that speak to both a director's interference in a documentary subject and the impossibility of avoiding director interference in any documentary project.

Produced in the same period of time as the surrealist parable Even Dwarfs Started Small and the landmark documentaries The Land of Silence and Darkness and The Flying Doctors of East Africa, Fata Morgana lays the groundwork for Herzog's masterpiece Aguirre: The Wrath of God, essaying primordial locations as the setting for an individual's awakening to his lizard self while gaining conversance with a style of montage and visual/aural storytelling that will lead to some of the most haunted films in the cinematic conversation. By including actual shots of mirages in Fata Morgana, Herzog has attained a kind of eloquence and concision that is as good a template for analysis of his pictures from here on out as any. This is the New German Cinema as a mirage, a promise of fertility and salvation in what Slavoj Zizek calls the "desert of the real."

Anchor Bay releases Fata Morgana as a "B-side" to Herzog's 1992 Kuwait documentary Lessons of Darkness. Presented in a full-frame video transfer, the picture's dreamscape is rendered with absolute clarity--unmarred by print defects, grain, or lines, in other words, it's as good as we've come to expect from Anchor Bay, with the accompanying 2.0 mono soundtrack (in original German or dubbed English) sounding surprisingly full and resonant in the lower registers. In addition to Jim Knipfel's informed liner notes, find another commentary featuring Herzog, Anchor Bay's Norman Hill, and actor Crispin Glover that illuminates the background for the project as well as the long, revelatory editing process. Though I defer again to Paul Cronin's Herzog on Herzog for the final word on Fata Morgana, as introductions to the piece go (and for specific trainspotting of the mirages in the picture), the commentary's tops. Also tops is a long, all-text "Production Notes" feature authored by Anchor Bay's Mark Wickum that details the film's problems post-distribution and difficulties in interpretation, while Jay Marks and Waylon Wahl raise the standard for DVD-based artist biographies with theirs of Herzog.-Walter Chaw

1.33:1; German mono, English mono; English subtitles; DVD-10; 76 minutes; Anchor Bay

A work of holy madness about acts of holy madness, Werner Herzog's Aguirre: The Wrath of God is a transcendent, haunting film that defies description and captures, somehow, what it means to be human in all of the venal, small, sometimes grand things that being human implies. Once seen, it's never forgotten, and upon repeat viewings, it's one of those pictures that makes you want to cry for no particular reason but that it is, in almost every non-quantifiable way, perfect, a film alight with invention, love, and passion--a memoir of the worm in the gut that demands blood and glory. Aguirre (Klaus Kinski) is an under-lieutenant in the bona fide Peruvian expedition of Gonzalo Pizarro (Alejandro Repulles) to find the lost city of gold, El Dorado, a fiction of the Peruvian Indians meant as a suicide pill for their conquistadors. Once the expedition bogs down in the mud of the rainy season, Pizarro sends nobleman Don Pedro de Ursua (Ruy Guerra) off with Aguirre on a satellite mission to scout a path ahead for the main body. Though neither party was ever heard from again, Aguirre: The Wrath of God proposes to tell the final days of Ursua's doomed men.

Kinski's Aguirre is an animal--the actor's intent was to move like a crab or an insect, some combination of Iago, Caliban, and Richard III as he looks Pizarro up and down with cold, bestial calculation before declaring to his commander that the river they want to follow will swallow them whole. He stages a coup, decides that his group is no longer subject to the Kingdom of Spain, and as their dwindling numbers drift down the endless river towards a fictional prize, death, invisible and silent, rains down on them from the mystical jungle. Scored by legendary ambient "Krautrock" band Popol Vuh (naming themselves after the Mayan creation myth, snatches of which are read as narration in Herzog's Fata Morgana), the mood of the piece is overwhelmingly, oppressively melancholy and weighted down with something like spiritual dread. When Aguirre declares himself "The Wrath of God," it speaks to the arrogance of man in trying to contain what's uncontainable--Wallace Stevens' "The Idea of Order at Key West" encapsulated in a film of impossible beauty (shot on a $360,000 budget with an eight-man crew) and ambition. Kinski's performance is already legendary, as are the tales of the native extras offering to murder Kinski on Herzog's behalf once the film was finished. It's a testament to the genius of Aguirre: The Wrath of God that its genesis has spawned its own creation mythology.

Anchor Bay wins my heart for the umpteenth time with a gorgeous DVD rendering of Aguirre: The Wrath of God, available individually or as part of their indispensable Herzog/Kinski box set. Maintaining its original Academy ratio of approximately 1.33:1, the film is presented in virtually flawless condition--and for a print with this sort of origin and of this age to look as clean as it does feels like a gift from eternity. A Dolby Digital 5.1 remix of the German audio makes full use of the ambient channels in reproducing the sublime score, though there is little separation otherwise. (Avoid the DD 2.0 mono English dub at all costs.) Most of the information is kept to the front channels, but it's fulsome and free of the flintiness common to digitally-tweaked analog soundtracks. A film-length commentary--again featuring Herzog, Norman Hill, and Crispin Glover--is full of interesting anecdotes and occasionally hilarious understatement, my personal favourite coming when Herzog is asked how, at the tender age of 28, he managed to do something like this--with a laugh and no further elaboration, he replies: "I had a clear perspective and was fortified with enough philosophy." Two talent biographies, one for Herzog and one for Kinski, have that usual Anchor Bay completeness and flare, although neither is credited to a specific author. The three trailers that round out the presentation resolve themselves to be one and the same: the first with English-subtitled German narration, the second with untranslated narration, and the third with English-dubbed narration.-Walter Chaw

1.33:1; German DD 5.1, English mono; English subtitles; DVD-9; 94 minutes; Anchor Bay

Midway through The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, our titular hero, played by paranoid schizophrenic street performer Bruno S., offers to tell a housekeeper a story about the Sahara--but just the beginning, the only part that he can remember. He's the avatar for director Werner Herzog's inquisitive mien, not so much an enigma as a mind forever voyaging--a storyteller aware that the stories he tells are doomed to forever be incomplete and, worse, insufficient. Kaspar will later dream of a landscape in Burma (8mm footage shot by Herzog's brother as a child), incapable of distinguishing it from reality, and the connection between what is real and what is mirage--between what is possible in words and what is possible through images--establishes itself as another portion of the Herzog puzzle. That the director identifies so deeply with a foundling in 19^th century Germany who appeared in the middle of a town square having spent his whole life chained to a floor in a basement dungeon speaks volumes to Herzog's feeling of detachment in intellectual, artistic, and social environments. A woman of privilege at a snooty party to which Kaspar has been invited as something of a trained monkey remarks "What a noble savage," and in one devastating, understated moment, the enigma of The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser rears its ugly head as a creation of prejudiced perception. The film is a cry for tolerance for the artistic temperament, one embodied by a mentally challenged man set loose amid the monsters of the literati.

The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser is perhaps best approached as a response to the outcry and controversy that already surrounded Herzog's pictures at this early point in his career. With his finger so firmly against the nerve of the popular consciousness, he presents the story as a gothic fable--an early version of The Elephant Man where an unfortunate is used as a mirror to gratify the myth of pure altruism while indicting the fear of difference epidemic in every level of society. Example of both: the film was decried in Germany upon its release as a snapshot of Herzog abusing a sick man in the service of a narrative that seemed to do little more than gratify the mysterious whimsy of the filmmaker. The irony of the piece, in and out, is that as Kaspar gradually becomes more articulate and less of an "enigma," the intense curiosity about him and his "creation" almost certainly leads to his downfall. Embedded therein is the idea that a dissection of art leads, inevitably, to the deconstruction of what is, at its essence, ineffable and indefinable. The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser is a strange, brave performance housed in an anti-linear film stuffed with obscure images and silent passages of profound, frightening insight.

Available individually or as part of Anchor Bay's Werner Herzog DVD box set (if you don't own it yet, why not? Both the Herzog and Herzog/Kinski compilations can be had for roughly the price of twenty Starbucks grande lattes), The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser receives a 1.77:1 anamorphic widescreen transfer that preserves the film's cameo-grain quality, casting the picture adrift in a fairytale hinterland. (It reminds in a low-fi way of Ridley Scott's visual sense for the similarly muted/particulate Legend.) The German DD 2.0 mono audio is clear. Herzog is again on hand for a feature-length yak-track, with co-commentator Norman Hill acting as a gentle, if superfluous, prod to memory now and again. Similar to the Fata Morgana commentary, Herzog trainspots moments taken from the historical story of Kaspar Hauser, lending a good deal of understanding as to where the filmmaker ends and the record begins. A trailer and an excellent text bio round out the presentation; Jim Knipfel authors the two-page essay tucked inside the keepcase.-Walter Chaw

1.77:1 (16x9); German mono; English subtitles (optional); DVD-9; 109 minutes; Anchor Bay

Hias (Josef Bierbichler) is a shepherd and a prophet, and his pronouncements pepper Heart of Glass like edicts from God. He defines the structure, in so much as there is one, of a picture that drifts in tone between director Werner Herzog's nightmarish, nostalgic Bavarian romanticism and a certain variety of gothic surrealism. Indeed, Heart of Glass, while hewing close to Herzog's themes of the insufficiency of myth as a means to obscure truths about horror and beauty as well as of the artist as solitary, Byronic voyager, appears to be Herzog's play at the stylization of Buñuel. After an aged glassblower dies in a small village, the out-of-time surviving villagers, reliant on the "ruby glass" that was the artisan's specialty, spend the balance of the piece spiralling in a maddening gyre to divine the secret of the formula. Like Aguirre: The Wrath of God, the story behind the scenes--that Herzog hypnotized his cast daily to create a trancelike (glassy-eyed, if you will) mien--has become almost better-known than the details of the film itself.

There is no other film in Herzog's library the equal of Heart of Glass in terms of visual poetry. The whole thing looks like a Caspar David Frederich painting come to life, complete with a surface realism imbued with dual meanings and piquant social commentary. The performances are appropriately ethereal, as elastic and obscure in their gibbering, faraway manner as the mysterious process of glassblowing itself. Though it's been labelled as the filmmaker's most impenetrable work, I'd offer that it's a crystal-clear representation of Herzog's belief that art is first ineffable, then essential, then fickle--that the pursuit of the muse is, in a Modernist sense (and the Romanticists are the wellspring for the Modernists), the only possible solution to the schism in man separating the things of Nature from the things of Man. (The artist as the bridge connecting the head in ascendance and the heart of glass, in other words.) Robbed of their creative outlet, the villagers of Herzog's black fable fly apart into murder, despair, and derangement, and nothing--not prophecy, fanaticism, or even the right reason of logic and pragmatism--can save them from the dark night encroaching.

Anchor Bay outdoes itself in a difficult project that required at least a wave at consistency in representing a source print composed of stocks of varying levels of quality. The telecine operators seem to have erred on the side of "creamy," bringing the clarity to a similar softness that honours Herzog's idea of a Frederich-like "wanderer in the clouds." Heart of Glass' 1.66 anamorphic widescreen transfer is, then, wholly at the service of the film, which is as it should be. The German DD 2.0 mono audio is similarly fulsome, replicating Popol Vuh's hallucinogenic score with fidelity. A commentary track featuring Herzog and Norman Hill goes over the particulars of the shoot but, more so than do prior Herzog/Hill commentaries, lapses into silence and occasional bouts of self-congratulation ("Yes, that's very beautiful"). It's notable because although Heart of Glass is a picture that demands dissection, it discourages it, too, by dint of its unique--hypnotic--quality. Anchor Bay's typically excellent all-text production notes, a Herzog bio, and an obscure theatrical trailer that functions, in a rare moment, as a true supplement to the feature, round out the disc.-Walter Chaw

1.66:1 (16x9); German mono; English subtitles (optional); DVD-9; 94 minutes; Anchor Bay

I love this film. I'm enthralled by it. And every time I revisit it, it has a new gift for me. Bruno S. plays the titular Stroszek, a street performer released from a two-year institutionalization and left to his own devices with hooker girlfriend Eva (Eva Mattes) and pal Mr. Scheitz (Clemens Scheitz). There's a transparency to the performances that transcends naturalism: you sense that the actors are not only playing themselves (more so than usual), but also that they're playing themselves as allegorical figures in a metaphor for their lives. It's Spider, but it's at once more and less expressionistic than David Cronenberg's film--and while the long, quiet, empty reaches of living in the giant abandoned warehouse of a mind in flux is a constant melancholy the two films share, there is something in Stroszek, crystallized in the haunting image of a premature baby pawing at its bedding, that does more to traumatize the human condition. When the film's heroic triumvirate flee Germany for the gilded shores of Wisconsin ("Everybody's rich there") in a migration that reminds a little of Aguirre's doomed hunt for El Dorado, Stroszek is suddenly a picture about pilgrimage to a holy land that exists solely in the windy spaces conjured by the promise of westward expansion.

They end up in Ed Gein's hometown, a place caged beneath endless flats capped by endless sunset skies where the locals are achingly sincere and childlike in their polite discomfort. (It's a look at Americans as kind-eyed aliens that serves as an almost unbearably piquant counterpart to New German Cinema-mate Wim Wenders' Paris, Texas.) A scene where the three, led by a Wisconsonite, skate along the glass of a frozen pond in search of a sunken tractor and the possible murder victims that have ridden it into the drink, speaks to how the characters are dwarfed by a sort of flat, indiscriminate nature as well as consumed by the senselessness of life and death. "Nobody kicks you here," Eva says to Stroszek. "Not physically. Here they do it spiritually." The link between this and other modern masterpieces of disconnection (Fargo comes immediately to mind) is thus cemented. The closing sequence--in which Stroszek, holding a frozen turkey carcass, visits a nickelodeon packed with dancing and piano-playing chickens--touches on Herzog's chicken fetish, natch, but works, too as a mute commentary on where we come from, where we go, and the embarrassing crap we do to fill up the empty spaces in-between.

Anchor Bay's immaculate 1.66:1 anamorphic widescreen presentation of Stroszek embraces the unmistakable '70s tone of the piece, though I have my doubts that the film has ever looked better than this. The DVD instantly renders previous home video transfers obsolete, at least--ditto the DD 2.0 mono audio (in German with English subtitles), which sounds loud and clear and, for lack of a better descriptive term, bright. Herzog and Norman Hill chime in with another packed, informative commentary, the best parts of which do, in fact, involve Herzog and chickens, with the director revealing that the beasts making spectacles of themselves in their carefully-manufactured environments so disquieted his crew that they left the Bavarian to do his own cinematography for the final sequence. A trailer, lengthy production notes, and Anchor Bay's fantastic Herzog bio round out the presentation.-Walter Chaw

1.66:1 (16x9); German mono; English subtitles (optional); DVD-9; 102 minutes; Anchor Bay

Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht isn't scary so much as it's just delightful; not topical so much as it's an extremely competent, sometimes inspired tribute to F. W. Murnau and his classic 1922 Nosferatu. Werner Herzog's hand at the rudder is steady and Klaus Kinski's performance as Count Dracula is definitive, but the picture is an exercise in style generally lacking in the New German auteur's main throughlines, i.e. representation, class, and the vagaries of the creative process. What does survive relatively intact is Herzog's nascent surrealism, which flowers during the picture's endlessly disturbing tableaux of plague victims celebrating the last of life with rat-infested banquets and danses macabre. One could extend a little and support that the film's scenes of apocalypse and pestilence hint at a loathing of immigrants and the perception of cultural corruption, but there's a damning ornamental emptiness at the centre of Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht (henceforth Nosferatu) that places it forever out of time--without a father, as it were. The film's reason for being (it's a shrine to Herzog's favourite German director) is also the end of the conversation.

To that end, however, Herzog's steady mastery of landscapes and time-lapse photography create a feeling of nature as a predator lying in wait as doltish Jonathan Harker (Bruno Ganz) makes his way to the ruined castle of mysterious Count Dracula. As played by Kinski, the bloodsucker is uncomfortably fey and declining; the scene where Dracula shares dinner with Harker upon Harker's arrival in Transylvania is a masterpiece of understatement. When he sinks his rat teeth into Harker and, later, Harker's bride Lucy (Isabelle Adjani), he does so with a creepy tenderness that's repulsive at best, disturbing at the least. (With his fingers extended into claws, this Dracula cradles his victims' heads like an infant cradles a breast.) Roland Topor steals the show as Renfield in a too-brief cameo, while the resolution of the fable involving Lucy's ultimate, Pyrrhic sacrifice and the Count's insectile death scene are immensely satisfying. Despite much to recommend it, Nosferatu remains a feather-light curiosity in Herzog's filmography--a picture so personal that it's impersonal, and an homage to Murnau so slavish that its native genius is asked to play second fiddle to its creator's meticulous fanaticism.

For their Herzog/Kinski box set, Anchor Bay scraps the 124-minute English-language version of Nosferatu included as a supplement on the film's standalone DVD releases, isolating the 107-minute German cut of Nosferatu in a slightly muddy 1.85:1 anamorphic widescreen transfer that I'm guessing recreates with fidelity a dreamy visual sensibility closer to that of Herzog's nightmarish Heart of Glass than that of Stroszek. A featurette (13 mins.) sees a very young Herzog discussing the theatricality of his settings while giving a brief montage over to the amazing faces the Bavarian finds without fail to fill out the spaces of his films. Conversation is largely about how this will be an attempt to bridge German Expressionism with New German Cinema, an ambition that's only partially fulfilled, I think, insomuch as Nosferatu seems more interested in transplanting Expressionism whole into the late-'70s. For all the heat Kinski gets for being insane and unmanageable, this piece is most valuable for offering glimpses of the actor working to refine his craft--making of his monster a fiend as obsessively clothed in gesture as the master of a Japanese tea ceremony. In a commentary ported over from the previous DVD(s), Herzog (joined once again by Norman Hill) claims that the mummies that open Nosferatu are real and from Mexico, recounts some of the difficulties of casting non-professional actors in cameo roles, and of course maintains that Kinski was a raving lunatic. Three trailers as well as a nice Dolby Digital 5.1 alternative to the 2.0 mono audio round out the presentation.-Walter Chaw

1.85:1 (16x9); German DD 5.1, German mono; English subtitles (optional); DVD-9; 107 minutes; Anchor Bay

Werner Herzog's Woyzeck is a companion in more than proximity to his Nosferatu. Written and filmed in the 18 days following the shooting of his aforementioned tribute to Murnau, Woyzeck is a nod to another Herzog tent post, German dramatist Georg Büchner. And in looking at both films together, it seems clear that for all his maverick genius, Herzog is too respectful of his chief influences to infuse his shrines to them with anything that would brand them as uniquely Herzog. Based on a Büchner play, Woyzeck, sure enough, is extremely theatrical, composed as it is of mainly medium shots taken from static camera placements. Klaus Kinski is again fantastic, but the role, more so than Aguirre, Dracula, or even Fitzcarraldo, is hambone to the core, encouraging the actor to pitch himself to the back row to underscore the insular nature of the piece. Again, as with Nosferatu, Herzog briefly asserts himself with a touch of German Romanticist surrealism, here during the discovery of a body in a field attended by morticians bearing a black casket while wearing stovepipe hats--a touch of what the film could have been were it not so keenly pitched as a product of oil-painted veneration to an artist that Herzog doesn't appear to believe should be adapted so much as ported as a sacred whole.

Woyzeck (Kinski) is a forty-year-old buck private, a sadsack so robbed of his masculinity by years of institutional abuse that his captain (Wolfgang Reichmann) feels secure listing the unfortunate's shortcomings even as Woyzeck scrapes a straight razor against his jugular. His wife (Eva Mattes) has cuckolded him with a drum major and his doctor (Willy Semmelrogge) uses him as the subject in bizarre experiments with diet and behaviour. There's real pathos first when Woyzeck develops the shakes after catching a cat flung from a second story window to the clinical approval of a group of the doctor's colleagues, then when as the result of what is very probably another behavioural experiment, Woyzeck is told that his wife is running around on him. It's an extraordinarily cynical film that suggests that once every shred of dignity is shaved away, there remains the fire of male sexual jealousy. A climactic murder shot in rapturous slow-motion and serving as the perfect showcase for the expressiveness of Kinski's face is justifiably canonized in Herzog's visual portfolio, but the rest of it is just a little embalmed. Often painful but never truly affecting, the picture skims off the surface of the existential angst of the artist/creator of Herzog's best work.

Anchor Bay's 1.66:1 anamorphic widescreen DVD transfer of Woyzeck is crystal clear and above reproach, and it's matched by DD 2.0 mono audio that presents the dialogue and score with clarity and faithfulness. In a departure from the other discs in their Kinski/Herzog box set in not providing an audio commentary with the loquacious Herzog, the company's excellent bios of Herzog and Kinski accompany a trailer as the only special features. I refer to Paul Cronin's indispensable Herzog on Herzog as the final word on Woyzeck--consult it to learn the story of how Kinski insisted that he be beaten into unconsciousness for Woyzeck's terse prologue.-Walter Chaw

1.66:1 (16x9); German mono; English subtitles (optional); DVD-9; 81 minutes; Anchor Bay