Vladimir Nabokov attributed his “initial shiver of inspiration” for “Lolita” to the newspaper account of an ape, who, when induced to make a charcoal drawing, sketched the bars of its cage. Humbert’s narration paints in minute detail the mental confinement of his prison, and Nabokov’s ventriloquial genius is such that he obliges us to acknowledge that even monsters have their reasons. In his middle-period gangster films, “Goodfellas” and “Casino,” Martin Scorsese employed a novel-like first person narration, and the unexpected result was that it distanced us from the speakers. It’s not hard to see why: If Jimmy Doyle of “New York, New York” or Jake La Motta of “Raging Bull” spoke to us as they do to other individuals in those movies, we would like them even less than we do.

How we feel about Mr. Scorsese’s heroes governs our experiences of his films, and I think the more we live with his best work the better we understand and accept all but the most criminally psychotic of the people in them. His characters have no choice; they are who they are, come heaven or hell, and behavioral modification is never really an option. La Motta begins and ends with the mantra “I’m the boss,” having tried interim mantras such as “dummy dummy dummy” and “I’m not an animal.” Doyle admiringly observes of Liza Minnelli’s Francine, “You haven’t changed,” but the warranty of their undoing is that neither has he. Mr. Scorsese’s compassion for lost souls, which rivals Nabokov’s, is central to his achievement.

The diverse worlds he creates are so complete in every detail that each one exists only as a specific setting for the people it enfolds. His New York is never the same place twice: It is distinctly different in each film, as if “Mean Streets,” “Taxi Driver,” “New York, New York,” “Raging Bull,” “The King of Comedy,” “After Hours,” and “Goodfellas,” not to mention his 19th-century evocations (“The Age of Innocence,” “Gangs of New York”), occupied discrete geographies of the mind, reflecting the specific cages of each group of protagonists. Though confined and feverish, the city is remade in look, feeling, and tempo. That’s not true of other New York filmmakers, like Sidney Lumet or Woody Allen. But, then, their characters are obsessed with moral choices, not with obsession itself. They favor Hamlet, Brutus, and Moses. Mr. Scorsese is more intrigued by Othello, Macbeth, and Jesus.

In “Raging Bull,” the mobster Tommy Como complains of Jake, “This man’s got a head of rock.” One could argue that most Scorsese heroes are rock heads; they have no idea of who they are or how they strike others. Blinded by talent, desire, and fury, they resist social engineering. The ideal ornament of isolation is a mirror, the window of nothingness, and Mr. Scorsese’s alter egos often examine their own reflections in lieu of seeing outward or inward: Travis Bickle, in “Taxi Driver,” daring, “I’m the only one here”; Francine gazing, doe-eyed, a cipher even to herself; Jake reciting “I coulda been a contender” in a monotone to his bloated self.

Jimmy Doyle’s persistent obnoxiousness is like an illness. In the bravura 20-minute opening scene of “New York, New York,” Francine has no doubts about keeping him at bay until she sees an old friend, an ordinary schmo, and suddenly Jimmy’s kinetic unpredictability seems appealing. Mr. Scorsese knows the feeling: Johnny Boy, in “Mean Streets,” can no more master civil behavior than fly; Rupert Pupkin is as much a prisoner of his “King of Comedy” fantasies as he is of his bad suits and haircut; La Motta wants to catch Vicki being unfaithful, if only to justify his paranoia; Bill the Butcher, in “Gangs of New York,” is as hard-wired to his fate as Jesus is in “The Last Temptation of Christ,” or Howard Hughes, with his urine-filled milk bottles, is in “The Aviator.” Their skills, profound or meager, are inseparable from their fixations. They can be killed, not broken.

MGM has released an odd quartet of early Scorsese films, separately and in a carton called “The Martin Scorsese Film Collection.” “Boxcar Bertha” (1972) is strictly an apprenticeship work turned out for the Roger Corman factory – a Depression-era crime-and-fiddles exercise with requisite nudity from the always-game Barbara Hershey and an unfortunate crucifixion climax. Based on a hoax-memoir (no, there never was a Boxcar Bertha), it smacks of prodigal self-consciousness, complete with collegiate in-jokes and a showy overhead shot. Yet it is mildly entertaining, not least for a bit part by John Carradine as an evil tycoon named Sartoris.

Mr. Scorsese’s two musicals, filmed simultaneously, are perfectly suited to DVD, because though you want to savor them, you don’t necessarily want to watch them in one sitting. “The Last Waltz” (1978) documents and stylizes the 1976 farewell concert by The Band, playing in peak form by itself and in collusion with such guests as Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Dr. John, Paul Butterfield, Emmy Lou Harris, the Staple Singers, Eric Clapton, and Muddy Waters – the elder statesman in the bunch and the only performer who acts out and articulates the lyric. Mr. Scorsese, looking rather Rasputinish, conducts intervening interviews (“What about women?”) with producer Robbie Robertson and other members of the Band. It remains one of the best musical documentaries ever made.

And “New York, New York” (1977), though doomed to neglect and misapprehension, remains one of the best MGM musicals and the last. A flop when first released in mutilated form (a key number, “Happy Endings,” the film’s version of “The Broadway Melody,” was cut to kindling), it is either adored with scruples or despised with relish. Shot on a soundstage New York, marginally more realistic than the one in “Guys and Dolls,” and set in 1945-55, Mr. Scorsese’s picture is a fantasia involving state-of-the art Hollywood decor, design, costume, and music. At the same time, it strips musical conventions of rehabilitated characters, pat endings, and maudlin adieus.

In one of the films that inspired Mr. Scorsese, Michael Curtiz’s “My Dream is Yours” (1949), Doris Day realizes the man she loves is a heel and surrenders to the dull conformist who loves her – the type from whom Mr. Scorsese rescues Francine. Instead, the perpetually surprised Francine gets talented saxophonist Jimmy Doyle (dubbed by Georgie Auld, who also appears as a bandleader and consequently gets to audition himself). Jimmy marries Francine to own her; failing that, he abandons her after she gives birth to their son, having used her hospital bed sheet to wipe his nose so as not to soil his handkerchief.

The film feels long – a few scenes are stretched beyond the point of peak effectiveness – but the talky energetic rhythms have an intoxicating humor that blunts the apparent mismatch of Mr. De Niro, who is always convincing, especially on the bandstand, and Ms. Minnelli, who regains her sparkle only after they part. Jimmy doesn’t require a backstory; we know everything we need to from Mr. De Niro’s posture, inflections, and broken smile (he has the V-shaped Satan smile Dashiell Hammett ascribed to Sam Spade). The neglect of Francine’s private life, however, undermines the equation. How does she handle being a single mom? Does she have boyfriends? Parents? Yet Ms. Minnelli’s rendition of “The World Goes Round,” a Garland-worthy showpiece, is her finest moment on film. Mr. Scorsese’s camera respectfully keeps still, merely pulling back a bit to give her air, and when she finishes she looks as if she had just experienced life-changing sex. The “Happy Ending” sequence, which recapitulates the plot, and the stirring debut of the title song, previously fragmented in the score, sustain the energy. I’d like to think that she was asked to sing less well (too much vibrato, no swing) in her earlier numbers with Jimmy.

Although the film looks and sounds great, MGM’s “Special Edition” of “New York, New York” is a letdown. It incorporates the same commentary as on the 1992 laser disc, but offers only a third of the laser’s outtakes (which included Ms. Minnelli’s impersonation of Jo Stafford), a fraction of its hundreds of photographs, and none of the interviews or shooting script. MGM should have made this disc a contender – as it did with the genuinely special “Special Edition” of “Raging Bull.” The black-and-white 1980 film is impeccably transferred and supported by more commentary and interviews than anyone but Mr. Scorsese’s biographer will care to explore.

“Raging Bull,” a hothouse masterpiece in which every component defines its unique vision, almost qualifies as a subliminal musical. The Mascagni themes baste an extraordinary assemblage of jazz and pop records wafting in, as if from a passerby’s radio. About 15 minutes into the picture, the scene shifts from Jake’s apartment – as a big band tune comes on the soundtrack – to the gym, where the music is concluded with four punches, each a quarternote “bam” calibrated to the tempo of the music. For all the attention to detail, Mr. Scorsese allowed himself (and us) a privileged moment toward the end, when Mr. De Niro accidentally upsets some dishes, and Cathy Moriarty, as Vicki, starts to laugh and turns her head; Mr. De Niro saves the take with an ad-lib and she instantly resumes character. Her millisecond of unfeigned reaction adds another level to the interstices between cinema and reality in a film balanced between observation and reproach.

“Raging Bull” finds boxing barbaric and details a homophobic undercurrent that carries over from the ring to the vicious treatment of women. In a neighborhood where the worst imprecations are insults to manhood, Jake can’t see a connection between his worry about having “girl’s hands,” his sexual denial (“I got to fight Robinson,” he tells Vicki, “I can’t fool around”), his outrage when Vicki describes another fighter as good-looking, his destruction of his own body, and his long brotherly kiss. Mr. Scorsese sees everything, and forgives him his blindness. He may even love him for it.

Mr. Giddins’s column appears every other Tuesday.