Film Reviews by griggs

Oliver Stone’s Talk Radio might be his best non-war film. However, how much of it is indeed “his” is up for debate—Eric Bogosian, who stars, also wrote the original play. It’s a sharp, gripping ride that rarely falters, packed with foreshadowing leading to an ending that still manages to surprise.

The Crucified Lovers is a beautifully made and deeply moving film that gives a stark view of life in Shogunate Japan, far from the usual tales of heroic samurais. Mizoguchi’s direction is brilliant, showing both the quiet beauty of the setting and the harsh reality of the characters’ lives. It’s a poignant story of love, duty, and sacrifice. While comparing it to Romeo and Juliet might be too simple, it shares the same tragic theme of love destroyed by duty and fate. With Martin Scorsese’s help, the film’s stunning visuals have been beautifully restored. Its exploration of love, morality, and sacrifice is powerful and leaves a deep impression. While it’s heavy and unrelenting at times, it’s a remarkable film that shows the strength of the human spirit in the face of hardship.

Ikiru is an incredible film that moved me. You can tell right away it's a Kurosawa movie—his use of lighting, such as the stark contrast between light and shadow in the office scenes, the way he frames his shots, like the use of long takes to emphasize the characters' emotions, and how deeply he cares about his characters all standout. But what surprised me was how much the story felt like something Yasujiro Ozu might tell. It's a quiet, thoughtful film about ordinary life, and seeing Kurosawa explore this kind of story was such a joy. The film reflects on what it means to live a meaningful life and a sharp critique of government bureaucracy. It shows the emptiness of office routines, the repetitive and soul-crushing nature of bureaucratic work, while following a man who searches for purpose after learning he doesn't have much time left. It's honest, heartfelt, and unforgettable. Kurosawa's storytelling here is so powerful, and I loved every moment.

Having thoroughly enjoyed Sergio Leone's Dollars Trilogy last year—especially A Fistful of Dollars—I was eager to finally check out Yojimbo as part of Japanuary. Kurosawa's influence on Leone is undeniable, and seeing the original story that inspired A Fistful of Dollars was a truly rewarding experience.

Yojimbo is a film that even those new to Kurosawa's work can easily appreciate. The plot is razor-sharp, and the two hours spent watching Sanjuro (played brilliantly by Toshiro Mifune) navigate his way through two rival clans flew by. Kurosawa's critique of unchecked capitalism, vividly showcasing the exploitation and suffering of the townspeople, is both thought-provoking and engaging.

The film is a visual masterpiece, with stark contrasts between the dusty town and the vibrant green of the surrounding countryside. The cinematography, particularly the use of low-angle shots to emphasize Sanjuro's power, adds to the film's visual impact. Mifune's portrayal of Sanjuro is captivating, perfectly balancing the character's cunning and humour with a subtle undercurrent of moral ambiguity. This, paired with music equal to Morricone's Fistful of Dollars soundtrack in terms of impact, adds so much personality to the story.

Kurosawa delivers a crowdpleaser that balances depth with fun. I can already tell this is one I'll return to repeatedly. If you've been on the fence about Kurosawa, Yojimbo is the perfect gateway film. Highly recommended.

Red Beard is not just a Kurosawa film, but it's also the most accessible one I’ve seen to date, making it a perfect entry point for those new to his work. And it’s utterly mesmerising. The story follows Dr Yasumoto, a young, arrogant physician reluctantly assigned to a rural clinic run by the gruff yet compassionate Dr Niide, better known as Red Beard.

Through Yasumoto’s eyes, we witness a series of tragic, deeply human, and often heartbreakingly raw vignettes of the patients in Red Beard’s care. These stories, with their profound emotional depth, grow increasingly poignant, culminating in one particularly devastating moment that left me reeling. It feels as though Kurosawa masterfully builds you up, only to break your heart and twist the knife just a little more.

Despite his commanding presence, Red Beard’s backstory remains mysterious. However, subtle hints suggest he arrived at the clinic much like Yasumoto.

The film features cameos from many icons of Japanese cinema’s golden age, with Chishu Ryu delivering a brief but profoundly moving appearance in the conclusion. These cameos not only add to the film's star power but also serve as a nod to the rich history of Japanese cinema, enriching the viewing experience for film enthusiasts.

Wim Wenders once said filmmakers wanting to capture rain or snow should study Kurosawa, and Red Beard shows why. The snow scenes, with their breathtaking beauty and raw, lifelike quality, evoke a sense of awe that feels almost magical.

While its three-hour runtime might seem indulgent, every moment is earned, and as such, this is a masterpiece I’ll revisit often and one I cannot recommend highly enough.

Woman in the Dunes had me mesmerised and uneasy. Its hypnotic pull was so intense that I felt like I was suffocating along with the characters. It’s one of the few films ever to impact my dreams, leaving me with a sense of intrigue and curiosity. All night, I felt like I had sand all over me and kept tossing and turning to shake it off.

Yasujiro Ozu’s Good Morning was my first time seeing one of his films in colour, and the vibrant hues immediately felt like a fresh lens on his familiar world. The landscapes and signature camera angles were quintessentially Ozu, grounding the film in his unmistakable style. But the lighthearted, almost mischievous dialogue, filled with witty banter and playful teasing, had me doing a double take—was this the same Ozu who gave us such profound, reflective dramas?

This playful story, poking fun at post-war consumerism through the antics of a small suburban community, brought plenty of smiles and even a few laugh-out-loud moments. The contrast with Ozu’s usual depth was striking, making it a charming and endearing watch that shows another side of his talent. A delightful detour in his filmography that I’m glad I took.

The Face of Another is a haunting morality tale that delves deep into the realms of identity and alienation. While it may not grip you as tightly as Seconds, or weave poetry as beautifully as Eyes Without a Face, or haunt you as profoundly as Persona ts philosophical musings have a lingering effect, stimulating the intellect. The mask motif, reminiscent of Japanese Noh theatre, adds layers of eeriness. It’s unsettling, thought-provoking, and beautifully strange.

Kaneto Shindo’s The Naked Island is a beautifully shot and creative look at the daily struggles of a family living on a tiny, remote island in Japan, whose survival depends on rowing to the mainland, collecting water from a well, and rowing back, a tough, exhausting routine that feels almost Sisyphean in its relentlessness, told with a documentary feel and entirely without dialogue. In fact, you need to keep reminding yourself that this isn’t a documentary but a work of fiction.

One of the film’s standout scenes occurs when the family goes to town to sell the fish the boys have caught. Here, they are the fish out of water, particularly when they stop to watch television through a shop window, a striking moment highlighting the gulf between their isolated, traditional way of life and the modern world. Given their way of life, moments like these remind you that this isn’t some film about an ancient way of life but set within living memory.

While much of the film relies on repetition and rhythm, its shocking ending delivers an emotional gut punch. When tragedy strikes and death disrupts their carefully maintained balance, the plot finally comes into focus, revealing the depth of the family's resilience and sorrow. The impact of this moment is heightened by the film’s earlier quietness and restraint, making it all the more devastating.

The onscreen activity is so mesmerising that I almost didn’t notice the lack of dialogue. With a hauntingly modern score, the film creates a hypnotic and profoundly immersive atmosphere. It’s a striking piece of cinema.

Mikio Naruse’s Yearning is my first encounter with his work, which was thoroughly enjoyable. The film feels like a warm nod to Ozu, capturing the rhythms of everyday life and the weight of emotional struggles. It shares that quiet, kitchen-sink drama sensibility (if you ignore the Western influenced use of a musical soundtrack). However, compared to Ozu it carries a bit more energy with Naruse’s use of multiple cameras, fluid actor movement, shorter scenes, and varied locations. The story of love, loss, and duty is simple yet moving, anchored by Hideko Takamine’s outstanding performance, full of warmth and depth. While it may not have the polish or profundity of Ozu’s masterpieces, its straightforward approach has a comforting charm. It’s Ozu-lite: not too heavy, not too fluffy, and more than compelling enough to hold your attention.

Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Monster is a thought-provoking and intricately crafted drama that feels like a gentle nod to Kurosawa’s Rashomon. The film unfolds through multiple perspectives, each revealing fragments of a larger story. While the non-linear timeline in the first half might feel disjointed, what initially seems like a gimmick soon proves essential. As the pieces click into place, you realise this structure mirrors the characters’ struggle to make sense of their own truths.

What makes Monster truly special is its empathy. Kore-eda shows us that everyone has their own version of events, but the courage to share that version, knowing it might be misunderstood, is where the real strength lies. Beautifully shot, with a subtle yet haunting score, the film keeps you hooked until the final, deeply satisfying moments. It’s not just a story—it’s an experience that rewards patience and reflection. Highly recommended for fans of thoughtful, layered storytelling.

Drive My Car is a beautifully meditative ride, but occasionally, it felt like it took the scenic route.

Only Angels Have Wings opens with a promising start, hinting at an exciting narrative. The first 15 minutes are filled with potential, but unfortunately, the story loses its momentum, with only a few tense flight scenes adding any real drama. Cary Grant's presence is undeniable, but his character's coldness makes it hard to invest emotionally. Jean Arthur brings some charm as the love interest, but her role feels half-baked, added as an afterthought. Her scenes with Grant lack real chemistry, and the romance feels tacked on. While the film hints at big emotions, it never really follows through, leaving it flat and quite dull overall.

Performance is a wild, kaleidoscopic exploration of identity, power, and decadence. Mick Jagger’s enigmatic Turner blurs the lines between rock star persona and character in a way that feels both natural and surreal. James Fox is equally impressive, shedding his polished, upper-class image to deliver a tightly wound, transformative performance as Chas, a violent gangster spiralling into an existential crisis. The film’s fragmented narrative is complemented by its use of psychedelic visuals, which create an immersive and intoxicating atmosphere. However, it sometimes prioritises style over clarity, making the experience more disorienting than cohesive.

Infinity Pool is a fascinating yet frustrating watch. Brandon Cronenberg’s lack of a distinct voice leaves this feeling like a pastiche of his father’s work. The premise is intriguing, but the repetitive second and third acts sap the film of tension and fresh ideas, making it feel overlong and undercooked. Mia Goth delivers another captivating performance, but the film’s structural failings make her performance feel overcooked. Despite its flaws, there’s an undeniable curiosity to Cronenberg’s approach, and while this one doesn’t fully land, I’m intrigued to see where he takes his craft next.