Film Reviews by griggs

Most femme fatales play the game. This one flips the board, pockets the pieces, and sells the table. The Last Seduction is a noir that knows the rules and couldn’t care less about following them. Linda Florentino owns every frame—sharp-tongued, dead eyed, and utterly magnetic. She doesn’t seduce as much as dare you to think you’re in control.

The plot’s a twisty small-town caper involving stolen cast, bad decisions, and men who really should know better. It’s pulpy but smart, and John Dahl directs with a knowing smirk—stylish without overreaching.

What makes it sing, though, is the gender reversal. Then men here are the dupes, the dreamers, the ones left blinking in the rear-view mirror. Firorentino’s Bridget isn’t searching for love or redemption—just a way out, preferably with a fat envelope of cash and no loose ends.

It’s dark, dry and deliciously cynical. If noir’s about power and consequence this one’s proof that bad behaviour isn’t just for the boys.

Starts with a wedding, ends with a door closing—and in between, it rewrites the rules of cinema. Everything about this feels mythic but lived-in: the family dynamics, the codes of honour, the sudden bursts of violence followed by long, brooding silences. It’s not just a crime saga—it’s a tragedy disguised as a power play.

Brando is unforgettable, yes, but it’s Pacino who quietly steals the film. Watching Michael shift from reluctant outsider to cold-eyed heir is like watching a soul calcify in real time. The transformation isn’t rushed—it’s inevitable.

Every scene is meticulously composed, from orange peels to whispered threats. But beneath the operatic style is a surprisingly intimate film—about fathers and sons, duty and betrayal, and the cost of saying yes when you should’ve run.

Even after multiple viewings, it still feels fresh. Not because it surprises, but because it understands human nature so well. Loyalty, power, regret—served cold, with cannoli on the side.

You don’t watch this so much as surrender to it. It’s glacial, operatic, maddeningly precise—and utterly hypnotic. Dialogue is sparse, plot barely there, but every frame feels deliberate, like Kubrick’s carving cinema into stone tablets. Somehow, it still feels futuristic, even after all these years.

The silence is part of the power. The empty corridors, the breathing in the helmet, that eerie calm as things start to go very wrong. HAL might be the most unsettling villain ever—a red dot with better diction and worse manners than most humans.

And then there’s the final stretch: a head trip through space and time that shouldn’t work, but does. Logic takes a back seat. Awe takes the wheel. It’s equal parts philosophy, tech demo, and celestial moodboard.

It’s about evolution, but also about watching a film evolve in front of you—moving from apes to astronauts to something far stranger. Monumental in every sense.

The Shining disorients by design. Kubrick builds unease not through chaos but control—gliding camera movements, symmetrical framing, and rooms that feel just a few degrees off reality. The Overlook isn’t merely haunted; it’s oppressive, surreal, and meticulously composed to keep you on edge.

What’s striking is the beauty. The visuals are lush, almost regal, but that elegance curdles into menace. The dread creeps in slowly—through the hush of empty corridors, the repetition of patterns, the mounting sense that logic has quietly exited the building.

The performances teeter between theatrical and uncanny, like everyone’s reading lines from someone else’s nightmare. Nothing is fully explained, which is part of the point. It’s not a puzzle to solve—it’s a feeling to endure. A descent into madness orchestrated with such precision it feels ritualistic. Terrifying, in a way that’s hard to shake, and harder to define.

Starts with a diner argument about Madonna, ends in a blood-soaked standoff, and somehow everything in between feels inevitable. Even after countless rewatches, Reservoir Dogs feels raw but precise—tight dialogue, tighter framing, and a structure that withholds just enough to keep you on edge.

It’s not about the heist; it’s about the wreckage. A bunch of sharp-dressed strangers unravel in a warehouse, bleeding, screaming, and second-guessing who screwed them. The tension comes not from what’s happening, but what’s already happened—and what’s being hidden.

Harvey Keitel gives it a bruised soul, Steve Buscemi brings wiry paranoia, and Michael Madsen… well, that warehouse scene is still hard to watch. The violence isn’t cartoonish; it’s grim, awkward, and deeply personal. What’s impressive is how much it gets from so little. One main location, a flashback or two, and a script that crackles like a live wire. Stylish, sure, but never style over substance. It’s a debut that knows exactly what it’s doing—and exactly who’s not walking out.

Masai Kobayashi’s Harakiri is an astonishing critique of samurai honour and the hypocrisies embedded within feudal codes. The film’s narrative is masterfully constructed through a flashback structure, peeling back layers of deception to reveal the cruel futility at its core. Each revelation draws the audience deeper into the tragic irony: a young samurai coerced into an excruciatingly pointless death by those who uphold honour only when it suits their image.

The imagery is unforgettable, with stark cinematography that turn the empty court yard of the Iyi clan into a stage for both deceit and devastation. The bamboo sword scene is almost unbearable to watch, Kobayashi forcing us to confront the sheer brutality hidden beneath the supposed elegance of ritualised suicide. It's a film that doesn't flinch—whether it's the agony of a young man stripped of dignity or the blood-soaked chaos of the final battle.

Beyond the visceral impact, Harakiri resonates deeper, challenging the audience to question blind alligiance to tradition and authority. It's rare to find a film this unflinching, this bold yet beautifully crafted. Kobayashi weaves an emotional and moral tapestry, a genuine masterpiece that invites us to reflect on the complexities of Japanese cinema.

Kurosawa’s Ran feels less like a film and more like a huge, once-in-a-lifetime event. Watching it is like seeing cinema change before your eyes. The scale is massive, every shot looks like a painting, and the battles are some of the most stunning ever put on screen. They aren’t just big and bloody, they feel like the chaos has become art. Tatsuya Nakadi is incredible as the old warlord losing his grip on power and reality, stumbling through a world that no longer makes sense to him. The entire film is an unrelenting, tragic, beautiful spectacle packed with unforgettable moments. If there’s a slight drawback, it’s that the film’s grandiosity can be exhaisting, but that’s hardly a flaw when the result is this powerful. Ran isn't just a film, it's and experience, a work of pure cinematic mastery that leaves you awestruck.

The Cranes Are Flying is staggeringly good, poetic, beautifully shot, and emotionally shattering. Its sweeping romance and raw humanity suggest that I have a sentimental side after all. A rare Soviet film with a softer, deeply personal touch. It's a masterclass in visual storytelling and heartbreak.

The Wages of Fear absolutely floored me. Having already seen Sorcerer, the Hollywood remake and loved it, I wasn’t sure this could top it—but it did, effortlessly. While the build-up is much longer, it pays off with more profound character development; you get to know these desperate men and their motives for risking it all. Yves Montand’s Mario and Charles Vanel’s Jo are much more nuanced, their arcs truly heart-wrenching, than their equivalents in Sorcerer. The film’s minimalism is its strength; every bump in the road feels monumental, making the tension almost unbearable. Where Sorcerer thrives on grit and spectacle, Wages of Fear delivers profound human drama, making it a thrilling ride and an emotionally resonant masterpiece. The journey is less action-packed than Sorcerer’s but far more intense and maddening as you wait for disaster to strike. The cinematography is stunning, and you care so much about the characters that every setback hits hard.

Sun-drenched repressions dn buttoned-up longing should be a winning combo, especially with Pinter behind the script. But The Go-Between is oddly stiff—emotionally bottled and dramatically flat. The central idea is strong: a boy caught in a doomed romance, used as a pawn by adults too cowardly to face consequences. There’s plenty of room for tension, but very little arrives.

The visuals have a hazy, postcard charm, and Julie Christie is as compelling as ever, even if she’s not given much to do beyond smoulder in period costume. Alan Bates broods. The boy frets. And yet, despite the promise of secrecy and scandal, much of it trudges.

What surprised me most was how clunky and syrupy some of the dialogue is—Pinter, usually a master of subtext, seems oddly sentimental here. It’s not without its moments, and the framing device adds some bite, but for a film about forbidden desire, it’s remarkably well-behaved. More wilted rose than English rose.

Sunset Boulevard opens with a body in a pool and a voiceover that oozes regret. What follows is part noir, part gothic horror, part pitch-black Hollywood satire. The tone wobbles on a tightrope between camp and tragedy—and somehow lands every step.

Gloria Swanson is extraordinary: not just playing Norma Desmond, but resurrecting herself with eerie, knowing grandeur. It’s a performance that’s both tragic and terrifying—fame curdled into delusion, with a spotlight still burning in her eyes. William Holden’s weary screenwriter isn’t innocent either; he trades his dignity for a roof and a typewriter, then acts surprised when it costs him more.

The house is a mausoleum, the monkey is… well, let’s not talk about the monkey. Every line is razor-sharp, every shadow purposeful. Wilder doesn’t just critique Hollywood—he embalms it, then puts it on display with a cracked smile. A film about illusions, made by people who knew exactly how illusions work.

A man gets a job. Then someone steals his bike. That’s the entire film. And it’s devastating. Set in postwar Rome, this is a film where every street corner hums with desperation, and hope is as fragile as a piece of paper stapled to a wall.

The premise is simple, but the stakes are enormous; no broke, no job, no food. What elevates it is the relationship between the father and his son. Their search is part detective story, part walking tour of poverty and pride.

The father’s frustration mounts, whilst his options shink, and through it all the boy watches—wide eyed, silent, absorbing everything. It’s unsentimental, but never cold, the heartbreak doesn’t come from the melodrama; it comes from the realism—faves in the crowds, small acts of kindness, moments of quiet failure.

The ending hits with the weight of truth; not noble, not redemptive, just honest. Some films entertain. This one understands A masterpiece of empathy in workman’s clothes.

At first, it’s all grey walls, bugged flats, and bureaucratic dread. Surveillance as a profession, loyalty as currency. But somewhere in that tangle of wires and whispers, something quietly shifts. A man paid to watch begins to listen—properly—and that difference changes everything.

Ulrich Mühe is astonishing: his Stasi officer says almost nothing, yet you see the entire moral arc play out on his face. The tiniest gestures carry the weight of conscience waking up from years of sedation. The film doesn’t rush it. It trusts silence, glances, hesitation.

What’s brilliant is that the politics never drown out the people. This isn’t just about East Germany in the ’80s—it’s about privacy, art, power, and the terrifying ease with which a state can turn paranoia into policy. And yet, it’s also about redemption—quiet, costly, and hard-won.

Some films rattle your nerves. This one touches your moral compass, gently but firmly. You watch, and feel watched.

It starts as a late-night drink and ends as emotional trench warfare. Two couples, too much gin, and enough bile to flood a campus. The genius lies in how the verbal barbs—funny at first—slowly strip the characters to their rawest selves. You’re not watching a domestic spat; you’re watching psychological demolition.

Elizabeth Taylor is a revelation—vulgar, wounded, commanding. Richard Burton matches her blow for blow, delivering bitterness with a scholar’s precision. Their rhythm is brutal but mesmerising, like watching two people fight with antique silverware instead of fists.

The script is razor-sharp, soaked in spite and sadness. What’s really being argued isn’t always what’s being said, and the game they’re playing—truth or illusion—has no real winner. Or perhaps the only winner is the audience, left slack-jawed at the sheer audacity of it all.

A story about marriage, performance, and the lies we build just to get through the day. Brutal, brilliant, and weirdly beautiful.

Choose life. Choose despair. Choose a carpet that probably shouldn’t be that colour. What’s remarkable is how a film so bleak manages to feel this alive. It’s a drug movie that doesn’t moralise, a comedy that shouldn’t be funny, and somehow still a gut-punch of emotional clarity.

Ewan McGregor’s narration zips between poetic and profane, while Boyle’s direction throws kitchen-sink realism into a blender with surreal set-pieces and a killer soundtrack. The pacing is relentless, but never rushed—it surges like a high, then crashes just as hard.

What stays with you isn’t just the toilet or the dead baby or the Renton sprint—it’s the casual brutality of addiction, the friendships held together by habit, and the creeping sense that escape is a choice most can’t make.

It’s grim, yes. But also absurdly vibrant. A chemical romance for those born into a world that already feels broken. Ugly, honest, and shot through with unexpected beauty.