The Warriors (Fri., Nov. 22, 9 p.m., Broadway Theater, 43 S. Broadway, Pittman, N.J., 856-589-7519, www.exhumedfilms.com) The bad news: Exhumed Films' attendance is down significantly since they were abruptly left homeless last month. The good news: They're still managing regular screenings, including some that let you get back home before the sun rises. Walter Hill's 1979 cult favorite -- followed by the unrelated 1990: The Bronx Warriors, a dystopian 1982 cash-in starring Fred Williamson and Vic Morrow -- is a prime text for those who regard Hill (48 Hrs., Streets of Fire, more recently Supernova and Undisputed) as an overlooked auteur, a master of elegant action and social comment.

Meet Me in St. Louis (Sat., Nov. 23, 3 p.m., $8.50, Prince Music Theater, 1412 Chestnut St., 215-569-9700, www.princemusictheater.org) The Prince's series of "Kid's Corner Classics," hosted by WXPN's preternaturally cheery Kathy O'Connell, continues with a screening of Vincente Minnelli's 1944 musical, including such celebrated numbers as "The Trolley Song," "Skip to My Lou" and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." Even among musical directors, Minnelli is among the most rococo, and Meet Me -- set at the turn of the 20th century, produced during World War II -- is like a time machine on film, furnishing an elaborately appointed version of a (purportedly) more innocent time. It's left to Minnelli's fans to debate exactly how intentional the artificiality of the setting is.

Dress to Kill ($19.98 DVD) Even after more than 10 years on the stage, Eddie Izzard remains a tricky comedian to classify -- not because he's mercurial but because there's still no category to put him in. Veering from pop-culture musings to historical essays to disquisitions on the different kinds of fruit, Izzard might be the ultimate free-association comic, except that his shows are so rigorously structured that he'll back-reference a half-dozen bits in the course of a few seconds (and, of course, make it seem utterly spontaneous). While Izzard's transvestism might strike some as confrontational, it's actually among the more easily absorbed elements of his stage presence -- it's hardly as disconcerting as his opting to do a dozen minutes of the San Francisco performance captured on Dress to Kill in French. (It's hard to know exactly how the bit, which involves attempting to use lesson-book French in a real-world context, would play if you don't actually speak the language, but the crowd's reaction seems a good indicator that Francophonia is not a requirement.) Whether distilling the essence of Shaggy and Scooby to "cowardice and sandwiches" (now there's a book title) or zipping through history from the Revolutionary War to the European Union, Izzard tosses off observations like he's trying to out-casual Oscar Wilde, at least until he stops, realizing the absurdity of what he's doing, and turns on his own material. He's so at ease you'd swear he was born on a stage, but every once in a while, he'll act as if he can't quite figure out what he's doing there (these are the moments when he gets lost in his own material, not infrequently asking the audience to remind him where he was). Izzard isn't exactly a groundbreaking performer -- where his innovation comes is in mixing together an almost preposterously wide range of subjects, pushing standup away from topicality and into the realm of pure performance. (Routines about wizards presumably never grow old.)

Surmounting the language barrier may take a little longer, as evidenced by Dress to Circle, a French-language performance which combines material from Dress to Kill and the following Circle show (as yet unreleased here; lucky Europeans have their choice of five Izzard concert films). Even more oddly, Izzard attempts to do simultaneous commentary in both English and French, which is probably incomprehensible to anyone who doesn't speak both languages (and not much better if you do). At least the main feature's supplementary track offers some insights into Izzard's process, as he critiques the sets, his outfit and his delivery as it evolved throughout the tour.

Man Bites Dog ($29.95 DVD) Funny how times change. Back in 1992, this Belgian mock-doc generated more than a little controversy with its matter-of-fact ultraviolence and double-barreled satire; nowadays, its depiction of media complicity and journalistic ambition doesn't seem nearly as acidic as, say, Ace in the Hole's. Luckily, the filmmakers -- Benoît Poelvoorde, André Bonzel and Rémy Belvaux -- argue in the note accompanying Criterion's disc (and insist that they've always argued) that the film was always intended more as a satire on desperate filmmakers than on the media and violence, a level on which it's a lot more successful. Working themselves into the story and also doing away with the need for a camera crew, Bonzel and Belvaux play a hungry young director/producer team who are making a documentary on the life and times of Poelvoorde's affable serial killer. That doesn't just mean interviewing him: André and Rémy watch him in the act of selecting victims, killing them, and even lend a hand when they threaten to escape -- and, of course, louse up the film.

Man Bites Dog -- whose original title translates as It Happened In Your Neighborhood -- is awfully blithe about such doings; it's one thing to show the filmmakers selling their souls to complete their project, another to excise all evidence of soul-searching whatsoever. (Such blasé amorality was, let's recall, awfully trendy at the time.) But the filmmakers play out their conceit with devilish cleverness; at one point, they run into another camera crew, following another underworld type around, and Ben starts demanding to know why they're still using film while the competition is shooting on video. (Not to worry: Their rivals are wiped out by scene's end.) In one particularly memorable sequence, the whole crew is hunted by unseen assailants in an abandoned factory, and the picture and image disassociate as cameraman and sound operator run in opposite directions. (Incidentally, Man Bites Dog's sound recordists have about the same life expectancy as Spinal Tap drummers.) Even if it's not the all-out assault it wants to be, Man Bites Dog still has its captivating moments.

Incidentally, for all their understanding of cutthroat filmmaking, Man Bites Dog's makers are awfully short on follow-up credits: IMDb lists nothing further on Belvaux, and only a single movie for Bonzel, with Poelvoorde showing the only significant post-MBD career. Maybe they couldn't find anyone to hold the boom mike.