The self-loathing underworld god-king of masculine genre angst and the world's first genuine action craftsman, Sam Peckinpah made movies that bark at the desert sun, and for all of the ink spilled about him, he is still underestimated and misunderstood. Today, buried beneath 20 years of violent film-action-as-car-commercial, he is a forgotten giant whose tortured achievement dwarfs the many critical attempts to typify it. As much as he might legitimately seem the moviemaking personification of testicular havoc himself, his films are stained and bloodied with desperate self-knowl edge and bludgeoning woe. His revolutionary overhaul of the western—fulfilling the chastened postwar promise of realism and converting the genre into a mournful, menopausal dogfight—is tied up with a bow in this DVD box, beginning with his... More >>>