Film Reviews by griggs

Hard to say anything new about The Breakfast Club, so I won’t pretend otherwise. Five teenagers in Saturday detention, a John Hughes script sharp enough to cut glass, and a premise that ought to feel trapped in the 1980s but still lands.

Hughes gives each archetype room to split open — the jock, the princess, the brain, the criminal, the basket case — and what spills out is messier and more human than any of them expected. Judd Nelson chews the scenery and earns every bite. Ally Sheedy quietly walks off with the film.

This isn’t the first and probably won’t be the last time I watch it. The confessional scenes still sting, the comedy holds up, and that ending — Simple Minds, fist in the air — gets me every time, even when I know it’s coming. Sentimental? Maybe. Don’t care.

Having dodged every review to protect Zendaya’s big secret, the reveal itself landed fine. Everything after that is the problem — the plot plods toward an ending so heavily signposted that only a Hollywood Boulevard billboard could have made it more obvious. The Drama takes its time getting where you already know it’s going, and the journey there isn’t interesting enough to make up for it.

The writing lands a few genuine laughs, even if the audience I shared a dog-friendly screening with seemed to find it considerably funnier than I did. It was, incidentally, the first time non-dog owners have outnumbered dog owners at one of these screenings — make of that what you will.

Athie’s Mike is the only one worth rooting for, the one character who feels less like a concept than a person. Everyone else is either duplicitous, naive, or trapped somewhere in the smug little overlap between the two.

Kristoffer Borgli, though, remains a filmmaker whose eye is sharper than his pen — technically the film is impressive work, and those inventive editing flourishes from Dream Scenario find their way here too. Still, long may his working relationship with producer Ari Aster continue.

Mind, dropping visual and verbal nods to Louis Malle and Ingmar Bergman — however much I covet that The Passion of Anna poster — doesn’t elevate your film to their level. It just reminds us where the bar sits.

Some Came Running is a Minnelli melodrama held together by three performances and not much else. Without its leads, this could easily have been a soap opera with better lighting. The story is all familiar furniture: army vet comes home, respectable brother turns out to be a fraud, party girl loves too hard. Still, Minnelli moves the camera like he’s staging a dance, and the carnival finale alone is worth the trip.

What gives it some force is the way it cuts into small-town hypocrisy and class snobbery. The supposedly respectable people — Frank, Agnes, Gwen — are the ones most trapped by status, appearances and self-interest, while the outcasts come off as the only people with any real decency. Sinatra is good, Martin is weirdly better, but MacLaine runs away with the whole thing. Ginny is loud, gaudy, completely undignified, and still the most decent person in town by a mile.

That is what makes the ending sting. Dave only really sees Ginny’s worth when it is far too late, which gives her death its punch even if the melodrama sags elsewhere. Worth seeing once. Watching it again? Only if it turned up on telly and I couldn’t find the remote.

I watched this twice in a row — the Japanese version first, then the English dub — and got genuinely emotional both times watching a cartoon teenager lose the ability to talk to her cat. Make of that what you will.

Witches leave home at thirteen to find their way in the world. Bar mitzvahs, the Amish Rumspringa, First Nations Australian initiatory journeys — every culture has a version of the moment your elders shove you out the door and wish you luck. Miyazaki could have played this for fantasy spectacle. Instead he made a film about a kid who starts a courier business and promptly discovers that independence is mostly loneliness, bad weather, and clients who don’t tip.

Kiki’s burnout arc rings true — the magic stops working because she stops working — but Miyazaki lingers on it a beat too long. Tombo is a drip, the townsfolk are furniture, and the dirigible finale feels like it parachuted in from a different film entirely.

The English dub doesn’t bother copying the original — it just does its own thing. Dunst nails Kiki’s wobbly confidence. Hartman turns Jiji into a full-on sarcastic scene-stealer, miles from the gentle Japanese version, and it absolutely works. Hisaishi’s score rescues the final act from its own chaos. A film that whispers when everything else shouts — even if it occasionally mumbles.

Plenty of films get called clever when they’re really just a bit too impressed with themselves. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind isn’t that. It might be one of the darkest, most twisted romcoms ever made, but the cleverness never feels like the point. It just makes the heartbreak hit harder.

Charlie Kaufman’s twisting, looping, memory-hopping structure rewards repeat viewings — you start to see how the narrative tangles mirror the emotional ones. But what really sticks is how honest the film is about love being wonderful, awful, and still worth the hassle. Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet are superb because they never play any of it like a fantasy. They feel messy, familiar, and slightly wrong for each other in a way that feels painfully real. Kirsten Dunst is the standout of the supporting cast, especially in the later scenes when her connection to the procedure turns quietly heartbreaking.

For all the wit and invention, the film keeps circling one question: is it better to have loved and lost than never loved at all? Apparently yes. Even if it wrecks your head a bit.

Pirates turn up expecting to terrorise colonial Hong Kong and instead run into Jackie Chan. The plot is mostly an excuse to fling Chan through a series of increasingly stupidly brilliant scrapes. It’s a bit baggy and not everything lands, but the stunt work is so gloriously unhinged it still wins you over.

I was never the biggest South Park fan, and Bigger, Longer & Uncut hasn’t done much to change that. It still has the show’s bratty, anything-for-a-reaction energy, and now and then that does land. But South Park has always felt funniest when it’s immediate — jabbing at the present tense rather than preserved behind glass.

Twenty-seven years on, some of that bite has inevitably dulled. The shock tactics are less shocking, and satire this tied to its moment can start to feel like old headlines with swear words. A few songs still hit, mind. Irritatingly effective.

What surprised me was how some of it has come back round. The war hysteria, the moral panic, America treating Canada like a joke or a possession — it doesn’t feel quite so dusty after Trump’s repeated “51st state” talk about Canada. Maybe that gives it a second life. It still didn’t fully win me over, but perhaps history has done some of the film’s work for it.

There’s something deeply satisfying about a film that knows exactly what game it’s playing and then plays it better than almost anyone else. Infernal Affairs knows the assignment and wastes no time getting on with it.

Tony Leung gives the film its soul: all quiet exhaustion and low-level dread, like a man who’s been undercover so long he’s started to come apart at the seams. Andy Lau is the perfect counterweight — polished, watchful, and just panicked enough underneath. They spend much of the film apart, but it still makes their connection feel horribly tight.

Andrew Lau and Alan Mak keep everything lean and coiled. No fat, no showing off, just pressure applied scene by scene. It moves at a hell of a clip, but never feels like it’s skipping steps.

It’s not quite untouchable — now and then you can feel the gears turning — but when it hits, it really hits. A crime thriller with a brain, a pulse, and absolutely no interest in hanging about.

Verneuil’s caper understands something most heist films overlook: the waiting is the good bit. The first hour of Any Number Can Win is almost all setup — casino mechanics, Cannes seafront rhythms, Michel Audiard’s dialogue crackling like a lit fuse — and it’s glorious. Gabin radiates granite-still competence; Delon, all leather jacket and restless appetite, is the perfect counterpoint. They create friction just by standing next to each other.

The heist itself is a near-wordless beauty that can stand proudly alongside Rififi, while Louis Page’s black-and-white cinematography moves from Riviera glamour to backstage claustrophobia with terrific control. And the ending is one of cinema’s great punchlines — best left unspoiled.

If Francis’s romantic subplot with Carla Marlier’s dancer feels more like story machinery than a living relationship, that’s the one point where Audiard’s sharpness briefly slips. Still, it’s a small complaint in a film this sleek and self-assured.

Emilie Blichfeldt’s debut takes the Brothers Grimm version of Aschenputtel — the one where the stepsisters hack bits off their feet to force them into the slipper — and sensibly decides not to look away. It’s brilliant and disgusting in roughly equal measure.

Blichfeldt turns the fairy tale into body horror about beauty standards, male indifference, and the grotesque things women are pushed to do in order to be chosen. Lea Myren is superb as Elvira, enduring one hideous “improvement” after another while her mother bankrolls the nightmare and leaves her husband’s corpse to rot in the next room. Meanwhile the prince’s whole romantic method boils down to a foot fetish: he doesn’t care who the girl is, only whether she fits the shoe. What really gives it teeth is the shift in sympathy.

Cinderella is vain and sly, Elvira is awkward and desperate to belong. It sags slightly in the middle, but for a debut this is smart, nasty work.

Simon of the Desert packs a startling amount into 45 minutes. Claudio Brook plays Simón, a fifth-century holy man perched on a pillar in the desert, trying to transcend the flesh while life below carries on in all its petty, needy, faintly ridiculous humanity. The miracles barely impress anyone. The clergy are more interested in status than salvation. And Silvia Pinal's Devil keeps popping up to lure him down, each appearance pitched somewhere between theological ambush and the world's most blasphemous sketch show.

It's easy to think of Jodorowsky with all that sand, symbolism, and spiritual extremity, but Buñuel is doing something cooler and slyer. Where Jodorowsky goes full fever dream, Buñuel just tilts the world slightly and lets the absurdity speak for itself.

What makes it more than a simple dig at organised religion is the faint tenderness it shows Simón. He isn't mocked as a fool so much as watched as someone who has given everything to an idea the world couldn't care less about. Minor Buñuel, perhaps, but minor Buñuel still clears most directors with room to spare.

I was wary of this one. Animation can lose me when the imagery gets so overpowering that the story ends up shoved into the back seat. And having seen it described as a cross between Belladonna of Sadness and Disney's Hercules, I was braced for the worst. Belladonna left me more drained than dazzled: grotesque, gorgeous, and hard work.

Thankfully, this landed better. The visuals are completely wild — blazing colours, swirling shapes, enough mythic strangeness to fuel a dozen folk tales — but they mostly serve the story rather than just showing off. Even so, there were stretches where I was admiring it more than connecting with it, which probably says as much about my limits with this kind of overwhelming visual style as it does about the film.

Undeniably inventive, often striking, and never boring to look at. I wasn't swept away, but I'm glad I spent time with it. A fascinating piece of animated myth-making that kept me at arm's length — though I suspect that distance is more on me than on the film.

There’s something charming about watching a room full of well-meaning officials botch absolutely everything. Miloš Forman turns a small-town firefighters’ ball into a neat little snapshot of communist-era bureaucracy — committees that can’t organise a raffle, let alone a beauty contest. I’d expected something sharper, more biting, but what’s here is still funny, sly, and very human. At just over an hour, it also feels like it makes the same point twice. The slapstick lands nicely. A tidy little comedy of organised chaos.

A film about a group of teenagers so morally anaesthetised that one of them murders his girlfriend and the rest mostly react with a shrug should be absolutely crushing. Sometimes, thanks mainly to Crispin Glover, it gets close. His Layne is all flailing limbs, bad vibes and deranged energy, as if nobody told him to tone it down and thank God for that. He's fascinating to watch.

Dennis Hopper is great too, bringing a strange, almost touching softness to Feck, a washed-up ex-biker living with an inflatable doll in what somehow ends up feeling like the healthiest relationship in the whole film. He feels a bit like Hopper's Easy Rider persona run to seed — the counterculture reduced to a shack, some junk, and a very sad idea of companionship.

The problem is everything around them. Tim Hunter absolutely gets the dead-end suburban rot of it all, but there's a fine line between capturing emotional numbness and making the audience feel numb too. Too often, River's Edge just sits there. Keanu Reeves gives it a bit of conscience, but only up to a point. There's a better, harsher film in here about the hangover from the '60s and a Reagan-era generation left spiritually hollow, but it keeps getting buried under its own blank stare.

There was really no chance I wasn’t going to warm to a hand-drawn French animated film about a scruffy bear and an idealistic little mouse. Ernest & Celestine is sweet, gentle, and easy to like, and thankfully it never tips over into something too twee to bear.

The watercolour animation is lovely, with that loose storybook look doing a lot of the heavy lifting, and the central friendship has real warmth to it. Ernest is an amiable mess, Celestine is full of heart, and their odd-couple dynamic carries the film along nicely. I did find myself wishing it had a bit more edge or emotional weight now and then, because for all its charm, it plays things quite safely.

Still, it’s warm, funny, and very easy company. Not something that knocked me flat, but definitely the sort of film you’re glad to have spent time with.