Film Reviews by griggs

The Collector offers a singular take on psychological horror—a slow-burn descent that shuns the usual genre trappings. Its distinctiveness makes it all the more unsettling. There are no frantic twists, no tidy resolution—just a creeping unease that steadily tightens its grip as you're drawn deeper into the warped mind of a man on the edge. This isn't about shocks; it’s about a suffocating intimacy, the way the film locks you in with its captive, inch by inch.

Terence Stamp delivers one of his most chilling performances, full of quiet menace. Samantha Eggar is equally compelling, grounding the story with a raw, emotional presence that makes the unfolding horror disturbingly real.

What truly unsettles is the film’s restraint. Tension builds not through spectacle but through atmosphere, character, and a score that gnaws at the edges of your psyche. It doesn’t offer comfort or distance—it stares straight through you and refuses to blink.

The Phoenician Scheme is Wes Anderson in soft focus—a film so buttoned-up it forgets to breathe. The dollhouse compositions, whimsical deadpan, and gallery of gentle eccentrics are all present. Still, it’s like someone swapped out the espresso for herbal tea. The colour palette is washed out, the pace dawdles and Benicio Del Toro keeps repeating that he feels “very safe.” He’s not wrong. Anderson plays it safe, too—no real jeopardy, sharp edges, just a muted stroll through melancholy miniatures.

Michael Cera, who usually triggers a full-body cringe, somehow sneaks past my defences, delivering a low-key performance that works in this oddly sedate world. But Mia Threapleton quietly lifts the whole thing, slipping out with the film’s emotional core tucked in her coat pocket. She’s the pulse in a movie that often feels like it’s under sedation.

The narrative is more straightforward than Anderson’s recent jigsaw puzzles, but strangely, it still lands with a thud. There’s an episodic drift that never quite connects to something meaningful. By the time the credits roll, you’re unsure what was at stake—or if it mattered. What might’ve been wry or charming comes across as wistful, almost mournful. It’s Anderson with all the props and none of the pep.

The Big Combo is classic noir, a dogged cop so obsessed with nailing the villain that he loses sight of everything else, including his own moral compass. The plot’s straightforward, even a little thin in places, but how it’s told makes it feel surprisingly modern. Cornel Wilde doesn’t leave much of a mark as the lead, but Richard Conte owns the film as the ruthless, smooth-talking Mr Brown—one of noir’s finest baddies.

Beyond the shadows and shootouts, there’s a surprisingly tender, clearly coded relationship between Mr Brown’s henchmen, Fanti and Mingo—intimate, domestic, and rather moving. Add in some eyebrow-raising elements like sadomasochism, a clear shoe/foot fetish, and even a bold nod to oral sex, and you’ve got something far more daring than your typical ’50s crime flick.

The cinematography is breathtaking—all chiaroscuro and cigarette smoke—while the film’s treatment of power, obsession and identity earns it a spot near the top of the noir canon. It’s a film that seduces with its shadows but stays with you because of what dares to play out in the dark.

I’ll admit my naivety upfront—I’d never heard of Jean-Michel Basquiat before watching this, but what a way to discover him. Basquiat is a powerful, engaging film, and that’s before you even get to the cast. Jeffrey Wright is brilliant, David Bowie as Warhol is surreal, and there are great turns from Benicio del Toro, Dennis Hopper, and Gary Oldman. The soundtrack is just as striking—Tom Waits, Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, The Rolling Stones, The Pogues, and, of course, Bowie, all help set the mood. The story flows with real energy and emotion; I was glued to the screen. It’s stylish, moving, and totally absorbing from start to finish.

Fritz Lang's The Woman in the Window is a taut little noir, dripping with shadows, suspense, and that creeping sense of doom. It feels like a dry run for Scarlet Street, which came a year later with the same leads—Joan Bennett and Edward G. Robinson—but Window more than holds its own. The story's a classic noir spiral: a meek man meets a mysterious woman and finds himself caught in a web of murder and regret. It's lean, moody, and morally murky. It's not quite as layered as Scarlet, but still a sharp, stylish thriller with real bite.

Spider is an intriguing psychological slow-burn, steeped in a haunting atmosphere and anchored by a superb performance from Ralph Fiennes. The casting is impeccable, with the entire ensemble delivering quietly powerful turns. Yet, for all its unsettling mood and emotional complexity, the film maintains a certain distance from the viewer. It’s absorbing rather than gripping—intellectually engaging but emotionally remote. A fascinating and finely crafted piece, though one that keeps you just out of reach.

Under the Volcano feels like watching a man unravel in real time. Albert Finney is astonishing—easily one of the finest portrayals of a drunk ever put on screen. No camera tricks, no slo-mo stumbles, just pure performance. You half expect vultures to start circling him. The film plunges you straight into Finney’s tortured mind and dares you to keep up. It’s sweaty, surreal, and often punishing, but there’s a strange beauty in the chaos. Not an easy watch, but certainly an unforgettable one. Like tequila for breakfast—probably ill-advised, but it definitely leaves a mark.

A mythological take on his childhood in Chile, The Dance of Reality sees Jodorowsky return to filmmaking after more than two decades, and he’s clearly not lost his taste for the surreal. It’s packed with visual metaphors, absurdist humour, spiritual musings, and dreamy fantasy detours—all delivered with his usual madcap flair. He dabbles in CGI too—not exactly state-of-the-art, but effective enough to stage a moment even Hitchcock might have admired.

With Jodorowsky, it sometimes feels like he’s making films for his own amusement, but on this occasion, he opens the door to the joke wider than ever. Warmth and tenderness are buried beneath all the wild imagery and philosophical wanderings. It’s still strange and dense, but there’s a soul here, a genuine attempt to connect. In fact, it’s probably his most welcoming film—surrealism with a human face. Whether intentional or not, it feels like Jodorowsky’s been watching Wes Anderson in the intervening years, the sets, the colours, the framing, and the plot structure. A wild, wise, and whimsical trip—often baffling, occasionally brilliant, and never dull.

A raw, scrappy snapshot of queer teen life in early ’90s LA, Totally F***ed Up is messy in all the right ways. Gregg Araki ditches polish for an unapologetic honesty, throwing us into a DIY patchwork of angst, irony, and punk-fuelled rebellion. It’s part video diary, part group therapy, with a cast of disaffected teens forming a fragile chosen family. Chaotic, angry, and strangely tender—it captures that feeling of being young, lost, and just trying to survive with an authenticity that's hard to come by.

Smokin’ Aces is all noise, no substance. It throws a dozen assassins, FBI agents, and mobsters into a blender and hopes chaos equals cool. There’s style to burn—fast cuts, big guns, flashy suits—but not much sense beneath it all. The cast is stacked, but most are wasted in paper-thin roles. It’s like Guy Ritchie on Red Bull, minus the wit. Occasionally fun, mostly exhausting. A film that mistakes excess for excitement.

Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song isn’t so much a film as a cinematic Molotov cocktail. As a narrative, it’s all over the place—jagged, repetitive, and hypnotically slow in parts. With its long musical interludes and fractured structure, it feels more like a protest performance than a traditional story. But as a cultural artefact? Five stars, no question.

It’s a raw, experimental howl of political rage—defiantly Black, fiercely anti-establishment. Van Peebles made it entirely on his own terms, and it shows: rough, angry, and brimming with intent. That said, the early scenes involving his real-life son, Mario van Peebles, are genuinely uncomfortable. What’s framed as revolutionary ends up feeling exploitative—and frankly, just wrong. Still, the film’s impact is seismic. It’s not here to entertain—it’s here to provoke. And on that front, it delivers.

It’s rare for a remake to come anywhere near the original, especially when Hollywood tries to redo a foreign classic. But Breathless gets surprisingly close. It’s not perfect, but it’s far better than it has any right to be. Richard Gere struts through the film like he owns the screen, oozing charisma in a way that almost matches Belmondo’s charm in the original.

The whole thing looks fantastic—bathed in neon, soaked in style, and shot in locations that make you want to hop in a convertible and drive into the desert. The filming techniques are wonderfully retro: sped-up car chases, rear-projection driving shots—it all feels like a love letter to a bygone era of cinema. There’s a definite charm to how out-of-time it all is. It’s slick, silly, and full of energy. A stylish American remix of a French classic that doesn’t disgrace itself.

Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning is a fitting send-off—for the franchise or at least for Cruise’s Ethan Hunt. It’s packed with fun, slick set pieces, and that classic MI tension. I’ll happily rewatch it (especially for Hayley Atwell, who frankly deserves her own spin-off). But let’s be honest: it’s way too long. At nearly three hours, it drags in parts and could’ve done with a good trim. Still, it’s exciting, confident, and occasionally quite mad—which is exactly what you want from this series. Not perfect, but a strong final(ish) bow. And yes, Cruise still runs like the world depends on it.

Bellflower wants to be a poetic howl about love, masculinity, and the end of the world—but mostly it’s just lads sulking and setting things on fire. There’s definitely something admirable about how scrappy and handmade it all feels. The Mad Max fantasies, the DIY flamethrowers—it’s the stuff of late-night stoner chats made real. Shame it’s all so overwrought. The visuals are bold but headachey, and the characters are more brooding than interesting. You can squint and see a good idea somewhere in the smoke, but it’s buried under too much self-importance and not enough heart. It’s got ambition, I’ll give it that—but ambition alone doesn’t make a film good. It makes it loud, messy, and just a bit exhausting.

Colt Special 38 Squad is a surprisingly straight-laced slice of ‘70s Italian crime, more stoic than sensational, but still a bit of a ride. The action kicks off early and rarely lets up, delivering a thrilling and engaging experience. Sometimes so fast it’s hard to track who’s shooting who—especially when the same bloke has a moustache in one scene and not in the next. The plot goes full grim with political bombings and terrorism, which grounds things in a way that feels very of-its-time. Still, it’s stylishly shot, with some gorgeous cityscapes and interiors that wouldn’t look out of place in an Argento film—moody wallpaper and all. The music slaps, there’s a blink-and-you-miss-it special squad montage, and some chaotic car stunts for good measure. It's not peak Poliziotteschi, but it's great fun and definitely worth a watch.