Film Reviews by griggs

This one really got under my skin. The Death of Mr. Lazarescu isn’t short on black comedy, but the humanity keeps barging in and stealing the scene. By the end, it felt less like I’d watched a film and more like I’d been stuck in the corridor with everyone else, waiting for someone to care properly.

The laughs are there, but they’re the sort you feel slightly bad about. Nobody comes off as a cartoon villain. It’s a bunch of tired, flawed people doing a brutal job inside a brutal system, and one man slowly slipping from “patient” into “problem”. The small stuff wrecked me: the realisation he won’t go back to his flat, his worry about the cats, and that horrible “he’s probably just drunk” shrug that keeps getting in the way of seeing what’s actually happening.

And then the night turns into a pressure cooker. A road accident clogs the place up, egos collide, people start snapping, and you can feel attention drifting from him to careers, pride, and sheer survival. It’s bleak, but not cynical — more like a hard stare at how dignity can get lost in the paperwork.

Nearly four hours about stone tablets and plagues shouldn’t be this easy to sit through. I’d geared up for a noble trudge; instead, it moves with the confidence of a film that knows exactly how to hold a crowd.

Yes, parts of the script creak. And yes, some of the performances look like the cast had a hearty breakfast of scenery. But that’s half the fun. DeMille stages everything on a “go big or go home” scale, with colour and production design doing heavy lifting in the best way. When the sea parts, it’s not an effect you politely admire — it’s a full-on cinema moment.

Cecil B. DeMille doesn’t do understatement. He does commandment-sized storytelling, with a straight face and a raised eyebrow. The Ten Commandments is old-school Hollywood at full volume: excessive, sincere, and oddly comforting — like a lavish Sunday roast: too much, a bit old-fashioned, and somehow exactly what you wanted.

I still haven’t hit a dud in Val Lewton’s run, and this might be my favourite yet. It’s eerie and oddly moving in the same breath, and that final scene lands like a cold hand on the back of your neck.

It’s not flawless. A bit of the acting can feel slightly wooden, and it really only stumbles twice: an unnecessary romantic detour, and a late speech that starts wagging its finger when it should be sharpening the dread.

The title says The Seventh Victim—but the real casualty is your sleep.

It’s been a while since we got an L.A. crime thriller this glossy without it feeling empty. The set-pieces are properly tidy, the story keeps moving, and the film knows how to capture the city: sun, long shadows, money and poverty, urban sprawl and squalor with that faint sense that something’s about to go wrong.

The Heat DNA is obvious, but Crime 101 wears it well. It feels more like a nod than a nick, and it keeps looping back to the daily grind — people clocking in, cutting deals, trying to climb a rung without slipping. Nick Nolte and Jennifer Jason Leigh popping up in supporting roles is a nice little angle too.

Halle Berry and Mark Ruffalo give it some warmth, with Ruffalo especially running on stubbornness and caffeine. Chris Hemsworth looks the part but as usual doesn’t quite fill the centre with much life. The ending ties a few knots a bit too neatly, but honestly? It’s a daftish title on a seriously satisfying thriller. More of these, please.

Halfway through, I caught myself checking the runtime — not from boredom, but because the handheld camerawork and direct-to-camera asides make every squabble feel like it’s happening on your sofa. It’s classic Allen: you can spot the emotional lane changes early, yet the barbed chatter stays funny and sore. The middle wanders, then the ending slams the door. And Judy Davis? A full-body panic attack, performed with terrifying precision.

Uncomfortably watchable.

I got a kick out of the fact that a Marxist, atheist, openly queer filmmaker made one of the most convincing Gospel films on screen. Pasolini doesn’t try to spruce Matthew up or “modernise” it. He just puts it there, straight, and somehow it feels more radical because of that. Same story, different temperature.

The words stay close to scripture, but they’re spoken by real, dusty faces in poor crowds. You can feel the suspicion of institutions, and the tenderness for people living on the edge of the frame. The politics come through as urgency, not slogans; the lack of belief as a serious respect for the sacred, minus the treacle.

Tonino Delli Colli’s stark black-and-white makes it look like neorealism has wandered into the New Testament, and Enrique Irazoqui’s intense, unsmiling Jesus keeps it taut. The middle softens a bit, but the ending lands with proper weight.

Hard to add to this.

Tender, funny, a bit eerie.

 Grey Gardens is a sad little vaudeville—mesmerising, but not quite love.

You can almost smell the dust and sweat. For a while this plays like a desert road movie with a rave heartbeat — all thump, glare, and decisions made at 3am. Sirât has the kind of opening that properly promises trouble in the best way.

The vibe is Noé’s sensory assault filtered through Östlund’s deadpan cruelty, all the while being egged on by Guy Maddin. Postcards land from Zabriskie Point, gears grind from Wages of Fear, and dust flies in the wake of Mad Max’s chassis. Then it swerves. A sudden, ugly escalation lands, and the story can’t quite absorb the shock; scenes start feeling less like choices and more like evasions.

Sergei López does what he can to anchor the chaos, and I’ll grant the film its nerve. But the final stretch reaches for “mind-blowing” but mostly just blows the film apart. Bold, yes. Coherent, no.

Autumnal Vermont is postcard-pretty here — every leaf looks like its been touched up — and Hitchcock uses the scenery to smuggle in a.very odd little comedy. A body turns up in the fictional hamlet of Highwater and the locals react like they’ve found a damp patch: awkward, solvable, best handled quietly.

The film keep circling one daft question — what do you do with Harry? — and answers it by burying him, digging him up, and burying him again, mostly to keep the authorities from poking around. The humour is dark, but never mean. Everyone’s eccentric, but politely so.

Shirley MacLaine’s debut is a treat: bright, bread, properly funny, like she’s always belonged in this sideways world. Sunny Hitchcock, still with teeth,

I am a bit torn on Frozen. On the one hand, Disney actually showed up with two well-drawn female leads and a story that doesn’t treat romance as the main-event. Anna and Elsa have their own drive, and the sister-first angle still feels surprisingly bold for a family blockbuster.

On the other hand, the humour is pretty basic — broad, loud beats that feel focus-tested. The plot also moves at a sprint, rarely pausing long enough for the relationships to sink in. A little more breathing room would’ve made the emotional turns land with less “next scene, please” energy.

Visually, though? Fair play. The CGI is slick, the lighting is gorgeous, and the whole thing has a crisp, colourful winter gloss.

So yes, I admire what it’s trying to do. I liked spending time with Anna and Elsa, and I’m glad it became such a phenomenon. It just doesn’t quite have the wit or space to match its own aims.

I like to think I’ve got a decent stomach for war films. Then this one puts you in Warsaw on 25 September 1944 and turns “escape” into a nasty little word. A battered Home Army unit heads for the sewers, and the further they go, the less “out” feels like a real direction.

Wajda makes the underground a grim second world — part escape route, part confessional, all labyrinth. The camera crowds in, the sound is drip, breath, and panic, and the moments that sting aren’t speeches but scraps: a joke that lands with a thud, a tenderness that can’t do the job, a dawning sense that maps are just wishful thinking.

It’s devastating, but never showy. The Cannes prize in 1957 makes sense. Kanal respects courage — and refuses to pretend it comes with a guarantee.

It doesn’t feel like you watch this so much as you get pinned in place by it. No melodrama, no rescue — just Bresson showing how a kid gets worn down by a thousand small cruelties.

Mouchette isn’t destroyed by one single incident. It’s the whole setup: poverty treated like a character flaw, constant judgement from adults and peers, meanness dressed up as “discipline”, and any “help” served with a side of superiority. Even when she lashes out, it’s survival — that’s what a cornered child looks like when she’s had enough of being measured and found wanting.

Nadine Nortier is terrific: all glare, stiffness, and exhausted pride. Bresson’s style is spare but never empty — it keeps you close, and it keeps you honest. By the end, you’re not debating her decisions. You’re furious at how many people decided she didn’t matter.

My third Lubitsch in a month, and I’d half-expected the streak to wobble. Instead, Heaven Can Wait hooks you immediately: Henry strolls into Hells’s reception area and calmly argues he belongs there, while Laird Cregar’s “His Excellency” listens like a man enjoying the best audition of the day.

The rest is Henry’s life, told in flashback with proper Technicolour polish — rich interiors, perfect manners, and small emotional bruises that creep up when you’re not watching. It’s not a laugh-a-minute job; the humour is dry and polite, and the warmth arrives almost by stealth. Don Ameche holds it together beautifully: charming, vain, and somehow still human. 

The marriage is the most interesting part — messy, believable, occasionally sad — though I kept wishing the film would spend more time following Gene Tierney’s point of view. And the episodic structure can feel like a series of excellent scenes rather than one clean reckoning. Still, it lands lightly, and that’s Lubitsch’s whole trick.

Adapted from Rafael Sabatini’s 1922 novel, Michael Curtiz turns it into a 1935 studio adventure with real snap — swords, romance, and just enough James II / William III politics to raise the stakes without turning into revision.

It’s also the film that made Errol Flynn a proper star, and it’s an early showcase for Olivia de Havilland as the sharpest kind of romantic counterweight. The dialogue can get hilariously over-fancy, but Flynn says it like he’s daring you not to believe him.

Basil Rathbone’s Levasseur is a delight: treacherous, flamboyantly French, and weirdly charming. The swordplay lands, Korngold’s score keeps the pulse up, and the climactic sea battle still impresses — not flawless, but absolutely a good time.

The train is a trap: sealed compartments, bad politics, and reputations weighed like luggage. Shanghai Lily isn’t just along for the ride — Marlene Dietrich turns every close-up into a quiet act of defiance, all weaponised poise and “judge me if you like” cool.

Josef von Sternberg shoots it in plush shadows and slightly off-kilter glamour, as if the light itself has been bribed. Anna May Wong is pure cool too — watch how she underplays and still owns the frame.

The hitch is the romance: pairing Dietrich with Clive Brook gives you a leading man shaped like a blank page. When the love story goes flat, the film still glides on style and tension… it just arrives with more swagger than swoon.