Film Reviews by griggs

What makes When the Wind Blows so quietly devastating isn’t just the subject matter—it’s the fact that it comes from Raymond Briggs, better known for cosy, child-friendly tales like The Snowman. That contrast is hard to get your head around. It taps into nuclear dread—that paralysing fear of annihilation we try to keep buried. But here, it’s filtered through twee domesticity and blind faith in government advice. Back then, the couple’s trust might’ve seemed touching. Now, it feels like satire. Naive. And yet, that’s the point. Watching them faff around with paper bags and doors is almost funny—until it isn’t. The emotional gut punch is how slowly things unravel. No big explosions, just quiet, creeping horror. It’s heartbreaking, surreal, and still painfully relevant. A grim reminder that good intentions and stiff-upper-lip routines won’t save you when the worst actually happens.

Unlike Threads, which traumatised an entire generation (my class who were forced to watch it at school included) with its brutal, documentary-style depiction of nuclear fallout, When the Wind Blows takes a gentler—though no less harrowing—approach. Where Threads is all raw panic and societal collapse, When the Wind Blows narrows the lens, focusing on one elderly couple fumbling through civil defence leaflets with heartbreaking optimism. Threads shows you the breakdown of everything. When the Wind Blows shows you what it feels like to keep calm and carry on while the world ends quietly around you. One is a howl, the other a sigh—but both leave you shaken to the core.

Visually stunning and unmistakably Wes Anderson, Isle of Dogs is like a lost Kurosawa film remade by a meticulous hipster taxidermist with a canine fixation—gorgeous to look at but emotionally neutered.Visually stunning and unmistakably Wes Anderson, Isle of Dogs is like a lost Kurosawa film remade by a meticulous hipster taxidermist with a canine fixation—gorgeous to look at but emotionally neutered.

The Fire Inside is a timely sports biopic that gives the boxing story a much-needed shake-up. This isn’t Rocky or Creed with a new face; this is Claressa Shields, forging her own path. The early big win is just the warm-up—the real fight is against cultural stereotypes and the grind for equal pay, a far tougher and more gripping battle. The performances, especially Brian Tyree Henry’s, are spot-on, and it’s no shock to see Barry Jenkins behind the script. The film lands its punches in the ring and where it really counts.

An absolute gem from Ealing Studios, The Ladykillers is a film I never tire of — a perfect portrait of Britain smiling sweetly as the walls cave in. Alec Guinness leads a gloriously decaying gang — Katie Johnson, Peter Sellers, Cecil Parker, Herbert Lom and Danny Green — in a story about hopeless criminals who can’t even outwit a little old lady with a parrot and a broken bannister.

For all its exquisite comedy, the truth is that The Ladykillers is a deeply reactionary, conservative film, almost a moral panic about Britain's decay during the rampant modernisation and reconstruction after World War Two.

Guinness, all deathly grins and crumbling teeth, floats through the film like a ghost who never quite got the hint. Still wet behind the ears, Sellers slouches about in teddy boy gear, the very picture of Britain’s terror of its own youth: all noise, no direction. One-Round, the ex-boxer, lumbers on as the forgotten working man. Lom’s character embodies that quiet, tight-lipped fear of the foreigner at the door. Meanwhile, the Major — medals polished, spine gone soft — stands as a mournful reminder that the aristocracy has long since checked out, leaving only the bill behind.

The real Britain is the house itself: a rotting Victorian monument collapsing gently into the railway lines, politely ignored by everyone until the final crash. Mackendrick’s direction is masterful: cheerfully musical, careful manners, murder politely arranged in the back room — all the things that made Britain great, now slightly moth-eaten and quietly sinking.

There’s a warning about outdated attitudes, but really, The Ladykillers is one long warning: a blackly funny obituary for a nation busily papering over the cracks, inviting the neighbours round for tea, and pretending the ceiling isn’t about to fall in.

It’s no doubt why the Coen Brothers’ remake fell so miserably flat: the comedy was still there, but stripped of the original’s brittle British sensibilities and its crumbling postwar backbone, all that remained was a harmless, weightless caper.

It’s glorious, grim, and somehow, every time, it feels like coming home — if home were a condemned building run by lunatics.

Port of Shadows is a brooding, beautifully gloomy slice of poetic realism full of fog, sadness, and fragile beauty. Jean Gabin oozes weary charm, while Marcel Carné crafts a world dripping in atmosphere and creeping despair. You can feel its fingerprints all over later Hollywood greats, from Casablanca to the shadowy corners of film noir. It’s a tough, bitter little film that hits harder the more you sit with it.

The Man Who Wasn’t There is a beautifully shot, bone-dry slice of existential noir where nobody really wins, and nobody even clocks the chaos unfurling around them. Billy Bob Thornton sleepwalks through a doomed life with a cigarette permanently stuck to his lip, while the Coens have fun with murder, dry-cleaning, and flying saucers. It’s maybe a bit too detached for its own good, but it’s so stylish and grimly funny you can’t help but admire the bleak artistry.

Watched this in preparation for the sequel’s release. The Accountant opens with an intriguing and surprisingly sympathetic premise, hinting at a more nuanced and inventive thriller than expected. However, it quickly loses footing, descending into an increasingly contrived and overcomplicated narrative. Despite a strong central performance, the film’s excessive length and underuse of supporting talent like Anna Kendrick and J.K. Simmons leave it feeling frustratingly hollow. Not without merit, but essentially a squandered opportunity.

Pepe le Moko is a cracking slice of poetic realism, beautifully made and dripping with atmosphere. Pepe, a notorious criminal, has the run of the Casbah, treated like a Robin Hood figure, but the freedom’s a cruel joke — it’s a gilded cage. He dreams of Paris, but the second he steps out, the Police will pounce. The Casbah itself feels as tight and suffocating as any prison. Stunning use of place, light, shadow, and razor-sharp editing throughout. Beneath it all, Pepe le Moko quietly twists the knife: freedom is an illusion, love is a death sentence, and fate, with a glint in its eye, plays the cruellest jokes of all.

Drugstore Cowboy wasn't quite what I expected—far less grimy than you'd think for a film about junkies knocking over pharmacies. It drifts rather than drives, giving it a dreamlike rhythm, though it can sometimes feel aimless. Still, modern cinema owes it more than a nod—you can draw a straight line to the Safdies' neon-soaked, morally slippery Good Time (2017), which feels like a direct homage to Van Sant's urban poetry. It's a fascinating artefact, if not quite the gut punch I'd anticipated.

Good Time is a wild ride—stylish, intense, and relentless. Robert Pattinson gives it his all, and the film looks incredible, all neon chaos and sweaty close-ups. But while it grabs you from the start, it doesn't always give you room to care. It's so focused on momentum that character and depth sometimes get left behind. Impressive stuff, no doubt, but I didn't connect with it as much as I thought I would.

A totally mad little film—full of big sci-fi ideas, daft dialogue, and gloriously cheesy special effects. It kicks off with a splendidly surreal shot that sets the tone and ends with one you really don’t want to see (but can’t look away from). Sure, it’s a bit creaky in places, but there’s real charm in the chaos. Perfect for when you’re in the mood for something properly bonkers.

Scorsese's After Hours is a darkly comedic film that illustrates the adage, “Nothing good happens after 2 am.” It follows Paul Hackett (Griffin Dunne) as he navigates a chaotic night in New York City, encountering increasingly bizarre events.

Paul's evening begins innocently enough when he meets Marcy (Rosanna Arquette) and visits her Soho apartment. However, his attempts to return home become a nightmarish adventure filled with surreal encounters. Scorsese's direction keeps the pace frenetic, portraying the city as a labyrinth trapping Paul with its eccentric characters.

The film blends humour with dread, capturing urban paranoia and the city's unpredictable nature. It's a brilliant exploration of urban anxiety and life's randomness.

Sofia Coppola's The Virgin Suicides is a visually stunning film. The cinematography by Ed Lachman is mesmerising, giving the suburban setting a dreamy, nostalgic feel. The music by Air adds to the film’s haunting atmosphere, perfectly matching its melancholic tone.

While the direction and performances are strong, the film is missing something. The characters, especially the Lisbon sisters, remain distant and hard to connect with. The story feels more like it belongs to the boys observing the sisters rather than the girls themselves. This might be intentional, reflecting the boys' limited perspective. Still, it leaves the audience wanting more depth and understanding of the sisters' inner lives.

Overall, The Virgin Suicides is a beautiful debut with impressive visuals and music. Still, it lacks the emotional connection to fully engage the viewer in the narrative.

Galaxy Quest, often praised as a cult classic with a loyal following, had the potential to be a sharp satire of sci-fi shows like Star Trek. However, it fell short of this potential, delivering a flat spoof that didn’t provoke a single laugh. The premise holds promise, but the execution disappoints at nearly every turn.

Tim Allen, leading the cast, unfortunately, fails to elevate the material. Even with the seasoned actors like Sigourney Weaver and Alan Rickman on board, the film struggles to find its comedic footing. It’s disheartening to see such talented actors reduced to navigating predictable jokes and tired plot points. Weaver and Rickman, known for their ability to deliver complex, memorable performances, are wasted here, wading through uninspired gags.

While Galaxy Quest might hold nostalgic value for some, it’s hard to overlook its failings as a comedy. The jokes often feel forced and rarely hit the mark, making the experience more of a chore than a pleasure. However, the set design and special effects, particularly in the scenes aboard the NSEA Protector, do provide some mild amusement. They demonstrate the production team's dedication and creativity, but they ultimately can’t compensate for the lack of genuine humour.

The film’s concept—of washed-up actors mistaken for real space heroes—is intriguing, and its charm lies in its self-awareness and affection for the sci-fi genre. But for a movie aiming to spoof a beloved genre, it falls short of delivering anything memorable or amusing. Despite this, Galaxy Quest's unique take on the sci-fi genre has undoubtedly influenced future works, demonstrating the enduring power of its concept even if its execution falls short.

What Hidden City lacks in terms of excitement, it more than makes up for it with its unique humour and flair. It's worth a watch alone to see hidden parts of London that are normally off-limits.