Film Reviews by griggs

I been avoiding rewatching 12 Angry Men, thinking, "How much more tension can twelve guys in a room really deliver?"—but a second viewing drew me further in, cranking up the claustrophobia until I felt like I was right there, the unofficial 13th angry, sweaty guy.

It’s rare that a sequel deepens rather than dilutes. This one cuts deeper. It’s not just about crime—it’s about bloodlines, betrayal, and the slow rot of power. Watching young Vito rise while Michael descends is like watching a family album curl at the edges, the colour draining from one generation to the next. De Niro plays Vito with quiet, magnetic resolve, while Pacino gives a masterclass in simmering control—his face stiff with the weight of choices he can’t unmake.

The scale is grand, the settings lavish, but everything feels haunted. The more Michael gains, the less he seems to have. By the end, he’s surrounded by silence, framed like a ghost in his own empire. It’s Shakespearean without showing off, emotional without ever begging for sympathy. Every scene feels essential, every cut sharp. It’s not about whether it’s better than the first—it’s that it dares to cast a longer shadow. Not just a sequel, but a reckoning.

On rewatch, it’s even more suffocating. I remembered the tension, the torpedoes, the rattle of depth charges—but I’d forgotten the stink, the boredom, the hours of sweat-soaked monotony. It’s a war film stripped of heroics, where courage looks more like endurance and fear is just part of the job.

What struck me this time was how lived-in it feels. The crew’s banter, the cramped routines, the way they joke one minute and brace for death the next—it all feels grimly authentic. The claustrophobia is relentless, but so is the humanity. Petersen isn’t out to glorify anything; he just drops you in the tin can and shuts the hatch.

I used to think it was about survival. Now it feels more like a slow, rust-covered descent into absurdity. The sea doesn’t care who’s right. And by the time you surface, if you do, you’re not sure what home even means anymore.

This genuinely rattled me. I’d expected cults and devilish twists—but hadn’t realised just how quietly insidious it all is. It’s not the horror of blood or demons that got to me, but the slow, steady erosion of control. Every smile feels like a trap, every act of kindness like a setup.

What struck me most was how isolated she becomes—not through violence, but through niceness. Mia Farrow is phenomenal, all sharp cheekbones and growing unease. You want to shout at the screen as everyone around her—especially her husband—treats her like a child in her own life.

It’s a horror film, yes, but also a razor-sharp portrait of what it’s like to be disbelieved, dismissed, and domesticated. The fear creeps in like a draught you can’t quite place. By the time it all comes together, I wasn’t shocked—I was furious. And that, I think, is the point.

It’s one of those films that feels like the end of something—the ‘60s., American innocence, the idea that dreams belong in cities. Watching it now, I’m struck by how tender it is, even in its grimiest moments. Hoffman’s Ratso is all bravado and broken teeth, while Voight plays Joe Buck like a man cosplaying his own fantasy. Their friendship is messy, codependent, and utterly moving.

That final bus ride still gets me: no grand speeches, just two men facing the quiet collapse of everything they hoped for. It’s daring in its depiction of poverty, sex, and failure, but what’s most readical is its empathy.

Honestly, knowing what I know now about Jon Voight’s politics and recent behaviour makes the thought of rewatching this, or any of his films a bit knotty. But he is brilliant here—earnest, fragile, and deeply human. One of those cases where the art survives the artist, even if it now feels like watching through a filter.

I went in expecting a crime drama and got a pressure cooker. It simmers not just with racial tension but with heat, sweat, and Southern discomfort. Every glance carries weight, every silence hums with hostility. But what elevates it is the balance—rage and restraint, justice and prejudice, all jostling for space in the same frame.

Sidney Poitier is electric. Calm, poised, and impossibly dignified, he doesn’t just hold the screen—he redefines it. His chemistry with Rod Steiger is the film’s secret weapon: two men forced to share air, grudgingly building something like respect amid suspicion and fear.

It’s tight, tense, and morally complex without ever being preachy. The slap—that moment—still hits like a thunderclap. And it’s shot with such a sharp eye for mood that even the quietest scenes feel charged. It’s not just about who killed whom. It’s about who gets to belong, who gets believed, and who’s allowed to stay cool under pressure.

It’s not the kind of paranoia that shouts—it hums. Quietly, insistently. Watching it feels like eavesdropping on a man unravelling, one muffled recording at a time. Gene Hackman is extraordinary: all awkward mannerisms and quiet dread, a surveillance expert terrified of being seen. He’s a man who trusts no one, not even himself—and for good reason.

What makes it so unsettling isn’t the plot (though that’s tight), but the atmosphere. The silences, the static, the way every sound feels suspect. Coppola directs with restraint, letting tension build in awkward pauses and empty rooms. It’s a film about listening, but also about mishearing—about how easily meaning slips away when filtered through fear.

It’s also weirdly moving. The loneliness of Hackman’s character cuts through the tech and the tension. For a story built around detachment, it hits close. Precision-built and perfectly paced, it’s a study in control—what we record, what we remember, and what we’d rather not know.

I always forget how sweaty, shouty, this is—and then I watch it again and remember it’s basically the gold standard for blowing stuff up with feeling. One building, one vest, one very bad night. Bruce isn’t saving the world, just trying to fix his marriage and not bleed out before sunrise. We’ve all been there.

He’s grumpy, barefoot, and increasingly covered in glass—but never smug. The one-liners land because he’s hanging on by a thread, not winking at the camera. Meanwhile, Alan Rickman gives us the kind of villain who probably reads The Economist for fun and would shoot you over a bad suit. Everything clicks: the pacing, the explosions, the walkie-talkie sass. Even the supporting characters—shout out to Argyle in the limo—feel like they wandered in from a better sitcom.

 It’s not just the best “guy versus terrorists in an office block” film. It’s the reason that subgenre exists. Accept no knock-offs. Yippee-ki-yay and all that.

The Long Good Friday kicks off like a gangland knees-up and gradually descends into pure panic. What starts as a swaggering tale of London’s top geezer modernising his empire turns into a masterclass in losing your grip—on power, respect, and basic bloody control. Hoskins is electric: all puffed-up bravado and twitchy desperation, a man used to making threats, not receiving them.

What’s brilliant is how small things feel at first—an explosion here, a missed meeting there. Then the noose tightens, and suddenly every pint, punter, and politician looks suspect. It’s the Thatcher era creeping in: deals over dinner, land grabs, and bombing in car parks. Helen Mirren is incredible as the calm in his storm, quietly managing the fallout with poise and more brains than most of the blokes.

And that final scene—just his face, stuck between fury and fear—is one of the greatest endings. Crime may pay, but not in perpetuity. Especially not on a Friday.

Feels less like a movie and more like falling into someone else’s memories—hazy, aimless, and weirdly comforting. Nothing much happens and that’s the point. It’s the last day of school, the start of summer, and the awkward space where teen rituals meet adult indifference.

The cast is stacked with future stars, but no one’s trying to steal scenes. Everyone’s just vibing—driving around, looking for a party, dodging authority, and occasionally landing on something profound without meaning to. There’s no single lead lead, just a constellation of characters orbiting boredom and low-stakes rebellion.

The soundtrack does a lot of the heavy lifting—it’s all needle drops and good vibes—but there’s real texture here. The film goes how small moments can feel monumental when you’re seventeen and stoned. It’s not nostalgic in a syrupy way; more like a time capsule cracked open by someone who remembers the beer was warm, the jeans were tight, and the future was a joke no one got yet.

Three and a half hours and not a wasted frame. I was prepared for endurance, and ended up wondering where the time went. It's a big, yes—epic in length, theme and scale—but it moves with purpose. Every look, every pause, every gallop through the mud builds toward something.

What caught me most wasn't the action (though that's brilliantly staged), but the humanity. The samurai aren't superheroes—they're flawed, tired, sometimes funny, always honourable in their own messy ways. You come for the swordplay and stay for the quiet moments: the laughter, the grief, the tension between pride and poverty.

Shimura holds the centre with calm authority, while Midune practically bursts out of the screen—wild, tragic, unforgettable. It's a film about duty, community and sacrifice, but also about what it means to protect people who can never repay you. It feels elemental—like storytelling carved in stone, which, I suspect, is what true greatness look like.

There’s a moment, about halfway through, when the floor quite literally drops out—and from then on, you know you’re in the hands of a master. Parasite sets itself up as a dark comedy about class grifting and then pivots into something sharper, stranger, and far more brutal. Every frame is doing something: building tension, sketching inequality, or quietly laying a trap.

What makes it remarkable isn’t just the twists—it’s how emotionally precise it is. The desperation, the humiliation, the casual cruelty of the rich dressed up as politeness. Bong Joon-ho doesn’t sermonise; he slices.

The whole cast is spot-on, but Song Kang-ho is the soul of it—a man too tired to rage, too proud to beg. And the production design is genius: staircases, smells, and basements all becoming metaphors without drawing attention to themselves.

It’s a tragedy disguised as a farce, or maybe the other way around. Either way, it’s flawless. And savage. And strangely funny.

A man in a red cap walks out of the desert, silent, hollowed out, and haunted—and somehow you’re completely with him. Paris, Texas is a road movie that moves inward. It’s about memory, guilt, and the ache of knowing you can’t fix what you broke, only to face it.

Harry Dean Stanton is extraordinary, all gaunt and stares and mumbled regrets, playing a man who’s been lost for so long he’s forgotten what it means to be found. His scenes with Nastassja Kinkski are devastating—quiet, delicate, and emotionally bare. That two-way mirror might as well be a scalpel.

Ry Cooder's slide guitar does half the work, humming through wide skies and emotional gulfs. And Wenders capture America like an outsider in awe and disbelief—neon diners, motel rooms, empty highways stretching between wounds.

It's about fathers and sons, husbands and wives, and the spaces we build between each other that words alone can't cross. Quietly shattering. Totally unforgettable.

The pinnacle of existential cinema where two love-struck policemen meander through the neon-lit labyrinth of Hong Kong. Who wouldn’t be riveted by a plot that flows like a dream or mildly confusing hallucination? With their whims and quirks, the characters offers a profound exploration of… well, something deep, I’m sure. And the cinematography? Absolutely breathtaking if you enjoy a visual buffet of quick cuts and kaleidoscopic colours. Truly it’s a film for those who appreciate the fine art of being bewildered and entertained all at once.

At first, it feels like watching paint dry—meticulously, dutifully, day after day. And then the cracks start to show. A pot overboils. A routine slips. A rhythm breaks. What Chantal Akerman does here is radical not in scale but in restraint: three hours of repetition that turn domestic routine into quiet revolt.

Delphine Seyrig is mesmerising. Her every gesture—peeling potatoes, folding towels, buttoning coats—becomes loaded with something unspoken. It’s a performance built from precision and silence, all the more devastating because nothing is ever said outright.

It’s about the tyranny of tasks, the claustrophobia of gender roles, and the violence simmering just beneath the surface of order. Not a film to multitask through. It demands patience, attention, and trust. And it rewards all three. The final act isn’t a twist—it’s a slow scream. Routine isn’t just habit here; it’s a form of survival. Until, suddenly, it isn’t. Astonishing, in the quietest possible way.