Film Reviews by griggs

Repetition is the theme—but that doesn’t make it any less wearing. The Other Way Around circles its central relationship with a doggedness that borders on stubborn, replaying conversations, edits, and awkward silences until the point has not so much landed as settled in for a long stay. The first hour in particular feels overstretched, and while the emotional drift between the characters is convincingly played, the pacing strains that credibility.

There’s also a tendency to shout about its cinematic pedigree—references to Bergman, Truffaut, and company arrive with the regularity of someone reciting their Criterion shelf. It starts to feel more like a checklist than a conversation.

The film eventually turns in on itself: Ale is editing her new film, which turns out to be the one we’re watching. It’s a clever structural twist, though a little too pleased with itself. Meta is fine; meaningful meta is harder. It’s not without its grace notes, but much of it plays like a first draft someone forgot to trim.

Bigas Luna doesn’t so much tell a story as throw a leg of jamón at the screen and dare you to find the symbolism. Jamón Jamón is a tale of thwarted love and maternal manipulation, told through sweat, thighs, and surreal flourishes. It’s absurd in all the right places — not just bawdy for effect, but using erotic chaos as a way to smuggle in something sharper.

Everyone’s sleeping with everyone, but underneath the flesh parade is a jagged little class satire. Silvia is punished not for getting pregnant, but for daring to want a life beyond the factory floor. Javier Bardem’s Raúl, all brute charm and hollow machismo, is less a person than a product: body first, thoughts optional.

It’s a film full of sexual ambiguity, symbolic livestock, and the kind of nudity that feels more confrontational than titillating. Not quite the sum of its parts, but there’s plenty to chew on.

Until the credits rolled, I had no idea Until Dawn was based on a game—though that might explain a few things, like the stilted pacing, patchy logic, and why half the cast seems to be waiting for a cutscene to load. The setup—a group of twenty-somethings stranded somewhere sinister—is familiar enough, but the film never finds a fresh angle. Or a torch.?

Whole stretches pass in near-total darkness, and I don’t mean thematically. Even with the brightness cranked up on a 4K screen, large chunks of the film were practically invisible. I’m all for atmosphere, but there’s a difference between shadowy and just… poorly lit.?

Plot-wise, your guess is as good as mine. People appear. People disappear. Occasionally, someone screams. The film seems to want to say something about guilt, or time, or death—but mostly says “wait, what?” The final scene gestures half-heartedly at a sequel, though judging by this outing, it’s hard to imagine anyone staying up for another round.

Some films test their characters. Fitzcarraldo tests everyone—actors, crew, and quite possibly the audience. It’s a film about a man who dreams of building an opera house in the middle of the Amazon and decides the best method to do so, involves hauling a full-sized steamship over a mountain. Absurd? Completely. But also kind of magnificent.

Herzog, ever the purist (or sadist, depending on who you ask), did it for real—ropes, pulleys, mud and all. The production was famously cursed: actors quit, tempers flared, injuries piled up. Klaus Kinski raged, natives watched in disbelief, And Herzong somehow held the whole circus together with sheer, unblinking will. The behind-the-scenes ordeal becomes part of the film's strange power—you're not just watching a story, you're witnessing something willed into existence through exhaustion.

There are colonial undertones, of course—one man imposing his vision on a place that never asked for it. But Fitzcarraldo seems aware of his own madness. It's less about the conquest and more about the beautiful, foolish things people will do to make something sublime—no matter the cost.

What begins as a modern horror standby—two strangers double-booked in an Airbnb—quickly descends into something far more unhinged, and definitely not in the host’s cleaning policy. Barbarian delights in pulling the rug, the floorboards, and eventually the entire house out from under you. Zach Cregger directs with a wicked sense of structure, shifting tone and genre just as things seem settled—like a nesting doll of bad decisions, each one more haunted than the last.

There are bumps—some structural whiplash and a subplot that feels more clever than essential—but it’s rarely dull, and often a hoot. The performances are committed, the tension tight, and the film knows exactly when to play it straight and when to scream into the absurd.

Consider this a public service announcement: check the listing, trust your instincts, and if your Airbnb looks too good to be true, book a Premier Inn instead. No secret tunnels; just a Toby Carvery round the corner.

Few horrors lean so literally into the idea of toxic relationships. Together is a slow-burn body horror that explores how co-dependence can curdle into something grotesque—how some couples stay together long past their expiration date, out of habit, inertia, or sheer emotional exhaustion. The premise is rich, but it takes its time getting there. The first hour is all scene-setting: awkward conversations, passive-aggressive sparring, and a thick undercurrent of unspoken resentment. It drifts more than it builds.

The comedic elements are surprisingly well-received—there’s a dry absurdity that works, particularly when the horror starts creeping in. That said, the dialogue occasionally feels overwritten, as though it was fine-tuned a bit too precisely for maximum cleverness rather than authenticity.

When the film finally shifts gears in the final 35 minutes, it does so with flair. One expertly timed jump scare had nearly everyone in my almost-full screening visibly jump. The body horror pays off, though some of the secondary effects lean into knowingly retro territory—stylistically playful, if perhaps not to everyone’s taste. The final act, however, ties things up a little too neatly, undermining some of the deliciously messy ambiguity built up beforehand.

There’s plenty of promise, but it takes patience to unearth.

A postwar chauffeur and an aristocratic widow might not sound like the most combustible pair, but the Hireling quietly thrives on repression, not fireworks. Robert Shaw plays Leadbitter, a former sergeant turned driver-for-hire, who stiff pride slowly unravels as he forms a tentative friendship—perhaps more—with Sarah Miles’ emotionally battered Lady Franklin. It’s a film of quiet corners and unspoken longing, all framed in perfectly muted tones.

Alan Bridges’ direction is purposeful and methodical, almost to a fault, but that deliberate pacing becomes the film’s secret weapon. You don’t realise how much it’s working on you until you’re sunk into it—one small gesture or sigh at a time.

The class dynamics are clear, but never shouted. Instead, there’s a slow, aching recognition of what people mean to each other—and what they don’t. By the final stretch, what began as a story of companionship becomes something altogether more raw and unsparing. Not flashy, but it sticks.

If ambition were enough, Southland Tales might have been something special. But with so many moving parts—and not enough control—it ends up feeling more like a scrapbook than a story. There are some sharp ideas buried in here: a take on American paranoia, celebrity culture, and the politics of fear. But most of it gets losts in heavy voiceovers, tangled plot lines, and scenes that seem pulled from different films entirely.

The cast is full of well-known faces, many playing odd or unexpected roles. But instead of streamlining, the film seems to try to use everyone, stretching the running time and testing your patience.

As science fiction, it’s too muddled to excite. As satire,  it’s too confused to hit the mark. With more focus—and much less exposition—it might have turned into a dark, strange cult favourite. Instead, Southland Tales tries to do everything, and ends up not doing much at all.

It’s been years since I saw the Richard Lester version of Superman II, but this cut feels sharper, cleaner—less stitched together. Donner’s version has a steelier spine: the violence is punchier, the tone slightly darker, and the chemistry between crackles with more innuendo than I remember from watching the Lester version on Saturday afternoon TV.

The narrative flows with a newfound coherence, as if the film finally knows what it wants to be—a proper sequel rather than a patchwork of reshoots and slapstick. It's still a comic book film at heart, but one that treats its characters with a bit more weight. That said, can still spot the joins—screen test footage, tonal shifts, and the occasional rough edge remind you this is a reconstruction, not a finished work.

The ending, too, lands differently. No memory-wiping kiss here. Instead Superman turns back time—again—which might strain the logic but feels oddly right for this mythic world of capes and consequences. DOnner's cut may not be definitive for everyone, but it gives the film the gravity it always hinted at, and gives Reeve's Superman a little more birth beneath the smile.

You can hear The Glass Key’s influence before you see it. The dialogue snaps like a mousetrap—short, sharp and always a little too clever for the room. There is a certain pleasure in watching characters talk circles around each other while the plot moves like a chess game played with knuckle dusters.

Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake bring the cool, thought he heat mostly comes from the supporting players and a script that never wastes a line. It’s easy to spot traces of this film in later noirs and political thrillers—the crooked alliances, the weary loyalty, the sense that everyone’s bluffing.

Still, it doesn’t quite have the weight or tension of the genre’s heavy hitters. The mystery resolves a little too neatly, and the pacing occasionally stalls between punches. But it’s a brisk, talky gem that earns its place in the noir toolkit—less a masterpiece, more a blueprint with flair.

Rough around the edges but never dull, Black Caesar punches above its weight for much of its runtime. It opens with swagger—setting up a revenge arc laced with righteous fury—and for a while, it marches like a street-level Scarface. But somewhere in the middle, the story hits fast-forward, skipping beats that might’ve given the rise-and-fall arc more weight.

Still, there’s plenty to admire. Fred Williamson carries it with stone-faced charisma, and James Brown’s soundtrack does more than keep pace—it practically drives the action. Some scenes catch you off guard, not just for their sudden violence but for how raw and pointed they feel. One moment in particular is as ugly as it is unforgettable.

It doesn’t all hold together, but there’s real energy here, and a few flashes of something deeper beneath the genre grit. Black Caesar might veer off course, but it circles back with just enough punch to make the journey worthwhile.

Gory, gruesome, and gripping. Bring Her Back doesn’t just shock—it creeps under the skin and stays there. What begins as a slow burn is anything but dull; the gradual buil gives the characters and themes space to develop, letting grief, guilt, and suppressed madness unfold at the their own unnerving pace. It’s a film that trusts it audience to sit with discomfort—and earns that trust handsomely.

Sally Hawkins is extraordinary—tight-wound, haunted, and utterly convincing—but debutant Sora Wong is the revelation. She brings quiet intensity to the screen, as if holding back a storm, making her every movement feel charged.

Though the setup may sound familiar, the film charts its course with real confidence. It’s sharply written, grimly inventive, and never afraid to go all the way once it hits its stride. Among this year’s releases few have made such a mess—or such a mark. Bring Her Back is hard to forget, and harder still to shake-off.

There’s throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks—and then there’s The Paperboy, where the wall seems to have wandered off mid-shoot. It flirts with half a dozen genres, tones, and plotlines, but commits to none. Is it a coming-of-age story? Southern Gothic? A deep-fried crime thriller? An erotic melodrama? A racial commentary? A journalism procedural? Take your pick but don’t expect any of them to work together—or even separately.

Zac Efron looks confused, and frankly, who can blame him? Nicole Kidman knows what kind of film she’s in—something hot, messy, and absurd—and leans in with chaotic gusto. John Cusack is sweaty and deranged, Matthew McConaughey is earnest and miscast, and David Oyelowo seems to be aiming for a different, better movie altogether. Macy Gray, meanwhile, narrates the whole thing with a bemused tone that starts to feel like the film’s only honest voice.

The result isn’t a train wreck—it’s five trains crashing on parallel tracks. It’s not unwatchable, but it’s barely a film. Just a sun-baked mess of sweat, lust, and poor direction.

The Lady from Shanghai is a noir gem, not because it's flawless but because its flaws are fascinating. The plot? A messy, chaotic tangle that stumbles more than it strides—never entirely taking off.

Despite their off-screen history, Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth share zero on-screen chemistry, perhaps due to the butchering Welles was forced to do in the edit suite to please the producers, making their romance as icy as Hayworth's platinum blonde hair.

But that finale! The hall-of-mirrors sequence is one of noir's coolest, most stylised endings and leaves a lasting impression, a testament to the film's enduring legacy. This dazzling, breath-stealing masterpiece almost redeems the preceding narrative chaos. It's Welles at his most chaotic and brilliant.

Amadeus is one of those rare films that manages to be grand and intimate at the same time. Set against the powdered wigs and ornate splendour of 18th-century Vienna, it tells a deeply human story of envy, genius, and the unbearable silence of being ordinary.

F. Murray Abraham gives a towering performance as Salieri, a man crushed not by failure but by the knowledge that his mediocrity exists alongside Mozart’s brilliance. Tom Hulce’s Mozart is electric—childish, vulgar, and casually divine at the keyboard. The rivalry that unfolds between them isn’t just personal; it’s metaphysical.

The storytelling is elegant, the script wickedly sharp, and the music—of course—is sublime. But what makes Amadeus so extraordinary is its understanding that greatness isn’t always heroic, and jealousy isn’t always unjustified.

It’s a lavish, haunting, and unexpectedly funny film that dares to ask why talent lands where it does—and what the rest of us are meant to do about it.