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Kino International has just released the best of the bunch on two DVDs, titled “How to Be a Man” (1949-1970) and “How to Be a Woman" (1948-1982), and many are as cringe-worthy as you might expect. In the hilariously hyperbolic cautionary tale "Car Theft," two teens go from stealing a hat to stealing a car to running over a toddler in about 11 minutes. In "Girls Are Better Than Ever," a nutritional video sponsored by the Milk Council, a voice-over describes a young, healthy-looking blond woman who is “worth looking at.” In "Dance, Little Children," which explores a small Midwestern town's syphilis outbreak, a narrator whose creepy intensity wouldn't be out of place in a horror film asks, “Who is to blame if young people respond to what an anxiety-ridden world seems to be telling them?” as the camera zooms in on the posterior of a girl dancing the jitterbug.

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In just three episodes, Abed has evolved from a potentially cruel punch line into a nuanced, fascinating and, thank heaven, still hilarious character, one who observes that documentaries are “like real movies but with ugly people.” His frequent cluelessness is a rich source of comedy, but he keeps the upper hand by being the source of the joke instead of the butt of it.

Last week, Abed, spurred by a classmate, took an introductory filmmaking class. His new obsession threatened to alienate everyone in his life, particularly his conservative, immigrant father. But in a witty scene with just the right amount of pathos, Abed showed his dad his short film -- a weird, dark little take on his mother’s abandonment. He had, movingly, found a way of expressing himself. And then he said something offensive.

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That seductive aroma wafts from every page of "The Marchesa Casati: Portraits of a Muse." Casati (1881-1957) was a tall, slender beauty with a taste for the unusual (even, apparently, when it came to sex) and a luxurious and idiosyncratic personal style: A celebrated figure in early 20th century European society, she'd stroll through Venice leading her two pet cheetahs on jeweled leashes; her daily look comprised an electric tousle of dyed-red hair and eyes rimmed with wide, dark rings of kohl. (She also used belladonna drops for added sparkle -- please don't try this at home.)

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“The Brady Bunch” was a corny, campy, but strangely lovable part of our lives. "The Brady Bunch Variety Hour" was the mutant cousin in the basement. Now, even those born long after the time when a perm and wide shirt collar were somehow considered attractive can experience it in glorious horror via a photo-packed, glitter-dappled scrapbook co-written by the one in curls herself, Susan Olsen.

For one strange and inexplicable late '70s year, America’s favorite blended family returned to the television airwaves as the spangly stars of one of the most appallingly weird spectacles to ever make it to network television. "Love to Love You Bradys" is, undeniably, a head-scratchingly hilarious celebration of a show that welcomed both Tina Turner and H.R. Pufnstuf, that notoriously featured a "fake Jan," and that the authors themselves refer to as "a steaming turd." It’s also a candid peek into the workings of a sinking, polyester ship, replete with closeted homosexuality (Robert Reed), drug abuse (Maureen McCormick), hissy fits (Florence Henderson) and some of the worst attempts at singing and dancing ever recorded in human history.

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“Rhapsody” is the tale of the masterly food critic Pierre Arthens, who lies on his deathbed struggling to remember the one flavor that he believes has defined his life. Every other chapter is narrated by Arthens and centers around a single food item, such as "Toast" or "Mayonnaise," moving in the manner of a detective story toward the mystery flavor. The other chapters each feature a different narrator who has known Arthens in some capacity. Everyone from his granddaughter to his cat to the statuette of Venus in his study gets a chance to weigh in.

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Guess again. Like Quinn, who shocks everyone with an announcement that casts a shadow of doubt on her chastity in the second episode of the season, "Glee" is deliciously mean-spirited behind its fluffy, "Up With People" facade. In fact, the comedy is so rife with insults, nasty asides and the occasional shockingly off-color joke, it's like a tequila chaser to the squealing, soda-pop madness of its fall time-slot precursor, "So You Think You Can Dance."

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And yes, the previous paragraph might as well have been written by the public relations team promoting the game. But that's because they were aiming to make something completely different this time around -- and, for the most part, they succeeded.

From the beginning, these musical video games have been a whole new genre. By offering facsimiles of musical instruments instead of the traditional game controller, they appealed to people not usually interested in figuring out that the "A" button means punch and that if you collect 100 stars you'll earn a new life. And they gave gamers the chance to live out their fantasies of rock stardom.

Adapting the game for the most iconic band in the history of pop music offered a new opportunity, an even wider audience. That, of course, includes older people who were even hesitant about playing the original "Rock Band" and "Rock Band 2."

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"What is community college?" asks the dean of Greendale C.C. on the first day of classes, speaking on a microphone plugged into a boombox. "Well, you've heard all kinds of things. You've heard it's looooser college for remedial teens, 20-something dropouts, middle-aged divorcees, and old people keeping their minds active as they circle the drain of eternity." We flash on each of these types of student, looking shocked and insulted, and then rest on Chevy Chase's face -- he's the old guy, circling the drain.

"However, I wish you luck!" shouts the dean, before realizing that he's missing a note card and has just skipped most of his speech. A crowd of annoyed-looking students wanders off.

This is exactly the sort of angsty Petri dish of underachievement where comedy thrives, of course, and it's what makes "Community" more than just another single-camera half-hour show doomed to flail among the new comedies of the fall lineup.

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Modest Mouse has dragged its scrappy angst across many a mile over the past 13 years, from the mid-20s ennui and frustration of "Interstate 8" to the unexpected early-30s optimism of "Float On" -- which of course carried with it the worry that the band might go mainstream, lose its edge, and other clichés.

Now here it is 2009, and Isaac Brock captures the panic incited by impending middle age when he sings, "We all try harder as the days run out" on "Perpetual Motion." With this collection of B-sides, Modest Mouse seems to be trying harder than ever to match their original clattery, ragtag sound. "Satellite Skin," "Guilty Cocker Spaniels" and a few others here feel like reasonably good discards from "Good News for People Who Love Bad News." But hold on for the dark instrumental "The Whale Song," whose eerie roiling tones and scratchy hodgepodge of voices captures the spirit of early Modest Mouse, playing to its unvarnished strengths.

Likewise, the moody strings and howling of "King Rat" feel like "Dramamine" meets Bob Fosse dance number, exactly the sort of madness that might reassure those fans who've been drawn to Brock's bitter wisdom for over a decade.

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Much of Robert Stone's new documentary "Earth Days" feels like a Thomas Pynchon-style alternate-universe history of the United States, except that it all really happened: One-tenth of the American population demonstrated against pollution and environmental destruction; a 36-year-old ex-Jesuit seminarian whose platform included "exploring the universe" was elected governor of California and appointed an astronaut-turned-hippie as his science advisor; a female college student became an overnight celebrity with an anti-childbirth commencement address titled "The Future Is a Cruel Hoax"; a Republican congressman became the leading environmental exponent in Washington; and the president ordered solar panels installed on the White House roof.

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Davis Guggenheim's lively and affectionate documentary "It Might Get Loud" doesn't actually get that loud, considering it brings together three distinctive and generally quite noisy rock 'n' roll guitarists, Jimmy Page (the Yardbirds, Led Zeppelin), the Edge (U2) and Jack White (the White Stripes). But what Guggenheim pulls off here -- he's the filmmaker behind "An Inconvenient Truth," and was also the producer of the late, lamented HBO series "Deadwood" -- is a relaxed tribute that doesn't come off as fawning, instead allowing the individuality of each artist to shine through.

Guggenheim brings the three together at a "summit," where they plug in and play. (You'll have to wait until the very end to hear them awkwardly, and charmingly, pick their way through the Band's "The Weight.") But even more entertaining is the way the three trade stories and jokes (en route to the summit, White muses about his ambition to fox the other two into "teaching me all of their tricks") and reflect on the musicians who helped shape their respective sensibilities, an array that includes Link Wray, Son House, the Clash, the Jam and assorted anonymous U.K. skiffle bands.

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It's the story of Quentin Coldwater, a glum teenage Brooklynite preparing for his first year of university, who finds himself enrolled instead in a secret college of magic. Like most of the other students at Brakebills, Quentin grew up on a series of children's novels about a magical land called Fillory, emblem of all the wonder he longs for but that seems forever out of reach. Could his long-denied dreams finally be coming true?

"The Magicians" is a grown-up's book, one that reflects on the sort of questions you never think to ask about fantasy narratives as a kid, such as: Is it such a good idea to meddle in the politics of a strange country you barely understand? Wouldn't magical powers drain much of the challenge -- and therefore the purpose -- out of life? If animals and trees could really talk, would they have anything especially interesting to say?

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