Film Reviews by griggs

Enter the Void is certainly a journey—one that dazzles the senses but tests the patience. Gaspar Noé crafts a hypnotic, neon-soaked plunge into the afterlife with stunning visuals and a unique first-person perspective. But at nearly three hours, it drags; I’m sure at least 30 minutes could have been shaved off without losing much. At times, it veers into the outright ludicrous, lost in its own self-indulgence, yet somehow it still tells an interesting story. It’s a film that’s more about experience than narrative, and while it’s impressive, it’s also exhausting. Stunning to look at, less fun to watch and even less fun to comprehend.

Given Geoffrey Rush and John Lithgow’s billing, I was surprised—and frankly disappointed—that The Rule of Jenny Penn received such a limited release. Most audiences will only catch it on a streamer, which feels like a disservice to a thriller this gripping. At times genuinely scary but always entertaining, it’s elevated by two powerhouse performances that deserve better than being buried in the internet’s darkest corners. My only gripe? The editing could have been tighter—sharpening the pacing and making the attempted jump scares more memorable and nerve racking. Still, a thoroughly enjoyable watch.

Black Bag is classic Soderbergh—slick, weird, and hard to pin down. It’s not quite a thriller, not quite a comedy, but more of a chaotic spy procedural where nothing really adds up. It’s fun to watch it all unfold. The script is razor-sharp and full of quick, clever and funny dialogue.

Michael Fassbender is back in his The Killer automaton mode—cold, efficient, and slightly terrifying—while Cate Blanchett chews up every scene ably supported by the superb Tom Burke, Naomie Harris while Pierce Brosnan reminds us he still oozes charisma even if it is with a sinister edge. It’s a film bursting with talent but never hits as hard as it should. Still, you could do much worse if you’re up for a stylish, oddball romp with a great cast.

Since Gene Hackman’s death, I’ve been exploring some of his lesser-known films, seeking out the deep cuts where he plays a true slimeball villain—not the camp or comedic kind (The Royal Tenenbaums, Superman, The Birdcage), nor the morally grey antihero (The French Connection, Night Moves), but the real nasty pieces of work. Prime Cut fits the bill perfectly.

 This is a grimy, mean-spirited little crime thriller, violent in ways that still feel shocking. The opening scene alone sets the tone—human meat ground up like sausages—and it only gets more grotesque from there. Hackman plays Mary Ann, a Kansas cattle baron and pimp who treats women like livestock and revels in his depravity. Opposite him is Lee Marvin, effortlessly cool as a mob enforcer sent to collect a debt. The two are absolute powerhouses, and their clash is electric—Hackman is so gleefully slimy I wish I’d seen this sooner.

 Director Michael Ritchie borrows plenty from Hitchcock, most obviously in a North by Northwest-style cornfield chase, but his approach is rougher, more brutal. The film is taut, lean, and stylish, but the script at times is woeful—clunky dialogue and thin character work occasionally undercut the tension. It’s not perfect, but as a cult pulpy, violent thriller, it’s got more than enough to recommend it.

The Meetings of Anna is one of those films that really pays off if you’re willing to sit with it. Nothing moves quickly—every scene lingers, and every silence feels loaded. Akerman frames each shot so beautifully that even the dullest hotel room feels deliberate. It’s such a smart piece of character work, letting us feel Anna’s loneliness without ever spelling it out. Conversations come and go, connections slip away, and you just absorb it all. It’s quiet, careful, and completely absorbing. If you’re in the right mood, it pulls you in and doesn’t let go.

Pi is a sweaty, paranoid trip into obsession, where maths, madness, and mysticism collide in grainy black-and-white. Darren Aronofsky keeps it raw and relentless, throwing us into the intense, spiralling breakdown of Sean Gullette's twitchy genius. The editing is frantic, the sound design pulses like a migraine, and the whole thing feels like a fever dream cooked up in a basement. It doesn't always add up—sometimes more pretentious than profound—but it's never dull. A wild, jittery little puzzle of a film that grips even as it scrambles its own equations. It's not quite a perfect formula, but it's an intriguing calculation nonetheless.

Stop whatever you’re doing and go see Sister Midnight right now. It’s an absolute wild ride—part razor-sharp deadpan comedy, part twisted nightmare, part body horror, and totally unhinged in the best way. The writing is wickedly smart, weird, and packed with surprises. I gasped, I laughed, I cringed. And I’ve walked away with a new feminist hero. Just ridiculously good.

Never Let Go starts strong, with a proper eerie vibe and solid tension. But as it goes on, logic gets chucked out the window, and by the final act, it’s so bad you’re left at the end of your tether. If you’re gonna dangle a film on the thinnest of narrative ropes, at least make it entertaining.

Third time lucky with McCabe & Mrs. Miller. My first two attempts were sabotaged by a DVD transfer so poor it looked like it had been dragged through the mud of Presbyterian Church itself. Add to that Altman’s infamous overlapping dialogue, and deciphering what anyone was saying was impossible.

But this time, it clicked well, sort of. The film’s genius is that nothing really works: the story lurches along, the editing relegates McCabe and Mrs Miller’s tale to another thread in the tapestry, and everything feels disjointed and grubby. And that’s perfect for a revisionist-western because the frontier was a nightmare of humanity’s worst impulses. It’s messy, bleak, and undeniably beautiful like a Leonard Cohen song put to film; appropriately, he scores it too.

Julie Christie's performance as the opium-smoking Mrs Miller is sharp and tragic. But for some reason, she adopts a mockney accent that is pure Dick Van Dyke. Given she’s British, it is absolutely ridiculous. Yet somehow, in Altman's grimy, chaotic world, it doesn’t feel out of place.

 I think it deserves another shot. Perhaps in a cinema, and hopefully, with sound clear enough to separate the dialogue from the ambient symphony of mud, bodily fluids, and atrocious weather conditions.

Juror #2 is fine but absolutely forgettable. The performances are competent, and Clint Eastwood’s direction is solid, if uninspired. However, the implausible plot stretches credibility far beyond breaking point. It’s watchable enough, but you’ll struggle to recall much about it in week’s time.

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.