Film Reviews by griggs

New York’s not just a backdrop here—it’s a third lead, grimy, wearing last night’s sweat like war paint, the kind of city where ambition curdles fast. Susan Seidelman shoots the dying days of the punk scene with the cracked energy of someone who’s lived it—no sheen, no sentimentality. Just grit, fumes and disappointment.

Wren, played with feral charm by Susan Berman, is a walking collage of borrowed cool and survival instinct. She wants fame—or at least to be near it—but the dream’s already expired, peeling like posters on a lamppost. She’s hard to root for, and that’s the point. She’s not selling out; there’s nothing left to sell. Richard Hell drifts through like a ghost of what might’ve been, but it’s the city that steals it—burning, buzzing, broken.

The whole film feels like a bruised mixtape: DIY, off-key, strangely compelling. Not a punk anthem, but maybe the B-side you keep coming back to.

Achingly beautiful, but not exactly brisk. The alpine vistas do much of the emotional heavy lifting, as we follow one man's moral stand against facism—and the long, slow consequences of it. The heart of the story is in the letters exchanged between husband and wife, read aloud in gentle voiceover—full of faith, longing, and the ache of absence.

It's intimate and moving, even if the film takes its sweet time getting anywhere. You admire the conviction on screen, and the filmmaker's too—but sometimes you wish both would pick up the pace. A film about conscience, yes, but also endurance—yours as much as the chatacters'. Stick with it, though, and there are moments that flicker with quiet power—small illuminations in the stillness.

Sun dappled, deceptively simple, and razor-sharp, this is Rohmer at his most merciless. Everyone’s on holiday, but no one’s relaxed—least of all the adults who lie with alarming ease to preserve their egos. Pauline—a teenager—sees straight through it. There’s sex, yes, but it’s the conversations that are the real seductions—flirtations with truth, half-truths, and whatever makes you feel better. Rohmer’s gift is letting people talk long enough to expose themselves. It’s funny, gently melancholic, and somehow weightier than it seems. You come for the beach. You stay for the moral autopsies.

Days is so still, you might wonder if the disc has frozen. But no—its just Tsai Ming-Iain’s inviting you to sit, breathe, and stew in the silence. The long takes border on the hypnotic, though occasionally they drift into the soporific. It’s a tender film, full of small gestures and aching loneliness, culminating in a moment of human contact that’s quietly devasting. That said, the minimalism can feel more like an endurance test than enlightenment. I admired its patience more than I felt its puls. Meditative, yes—but perhaps a little too much incense and not enough fire.

Strange on the Third Floor has a reputation as “the first film noir.” But I’m not convinced that makes it essential viewing. It’s more a fever dream of Dutch angles, expressionistic lighting and overwrought acting than a fully formed thriller. Peter Lorre finally appear—with silent menace—in the last 10 minutes, and suddenly it feels like a real film. Shame, then, that the rest of it is so stiff. The leads are acting so much as clawing through the script, and the dialogue doesn’t help. It’s a curiosity, not a classic—worth watching if you love noir history, but not much more.

Bleak, raw, and unexpectedly poetic, this one punches far above its weight. What starts as a kitchen-sink drama curdles into something more anarchic, more tragic—a cry of pain dressed in denim and punk. The performances are ferociously good, especially from Linda Manz, whose defiant snarl masks something heartbreakingly fragile. Hopper directs like he’s exorcising demons, with jagged energy and flashes of grace. It’s about broken families, shattered innocence, and the kind of damage that gets passed down like bad furniture. Not an easy watch, but a necessary one. You don’t just see the wreckage—you feel the impact.

Assault on Precinct 13 isn’t just a film—it’s a rite of passage for cinema fans. Made on a shoestring budget and powered by pure nerve, Carpenter’s urban cool Western turns a forgotten police station into ground zero for apocalyptic cool. The synth score alone deserves its own fan club. There’s barely any plot, barely a budget, and barely any dialogue—but somehow it’s electric. Every frame hums with menace, attitude, and outsider energy. It’s Rio Bravo reimagined by someone who worships Howard Hawks, George Romero, and dirty ‘70s LA. Low on gloss, high on myth—this is DIY legend-making at its finest.

Every time I rewatch The Third Man, I half wish I could forget it just to experience that entrance, that zither, that reveal, all over again. It’s a film soaked in postwar paranoia and rain-slick shadows, where even the Ferris wheel feels menacing. Cotten plays confusion beautifully, and Welles looms large off screen—charming, corrupt, and chilling. Reed’s direction is razor-sharp, twisting Vienna into a haunted maze of cobbled lies. It’s the rare thriller that’s as clever with its visuals as it is with its dialogue. Honestly, if you’ve not seen it, I envy you. And if you have—watch it again, and again.

Taxi Driver grabs you by the collar and drags you through a neon-lit hellscape of insomnia, alienation, and urban rot. De Niro’s Travis Bickle is both a ticking time bomb and a mirror held up to a sick society—equal parts pathetic and petrifying. Scorsese directs like a man possessed, making every frame drip with menace and madness. The city breathes, festers, and pulses with threat. And Bernard Herrrman’s final score? A sleazy lullaby for the damned. It’s not just a descent into darkness—it’s a guided tour. You come out changed. Or at least, you should be worried if you don’t.

Kubrick’s dystopia still stings. A Clockwork Orange is a brutal ballet of free will and state control, laced with irony and milk-plus menace. Malcolm McDowell is magnetic—repulsive and irresistible in equal measure—as Alex, the droog with a taste for Ludwig van and a penchant for mayhem. The film’s design is as sharp as a switchblade, and its satire cuts just as deep. It's disturbing, yes—but also darkly funny, perversely stylish, and philosophically loaded. But by the time the credits roll, you feel battered and oddly exhilarated. A cautionary tale, served cold, with a side of Beethoven’s Ninth.

More than just a zombie flick, Night of the Living Dead gnaws at America’s conscience. It’s raw, tense, and stripped of any comforting gloss—like a bad dream that won’t let you wake. Duane Jones brings a calm authority that makes what follows all the more effective. Romero builds dread with nothing but shadows, silence and social decay. It’s not the flesh-eating that stays with you, but the sense that civilisation is already halfway gone. Bu the time the final shot rolls, the horror isn’t the dead—it’s the living within. Still Chilling. Still Brilliant. Still painfully relevant.

Of all of Tarantino’s films, Jackie Brown might be the one I return to most. It’s the hangout movie hiding in plain sight—least showy than Pulp Fiction, but far more soulful. Pam Grier is magnetic, world-weary and wonderful, while Robert Forster delivers heartbreak, with a side of hair plugs. The plot plays with the Rashomon effect, replaying the same heist from shifting angles—not to confuse, but to deepen our grasp of motive and mood. What lingers in melancholy: second chances, missed connections, and cool heads under pressure. It steals your heart without firing a shot.

La Haine hits like a gut punch in monochrome. It’s angry, yes—but also razor-sharp, bleakly funny and tragically clear-eyed. The film tracks three young men over 24 hours in a pressure cooker of police violence and poverty, where time doesn’t just—tick it hisses. Kassovitz directs with fire and flair, while the cast (especially Cassel) smoulder with restless energy. What lingers is the tension—coiled, crackling, and close to the skin. Every scene feels like a naked flame hovering over petrol. It’s not just what happens, but how it’s framed: with style, and a terrible clarity. La Haine doesn’t shout—it simmers, and that’s what makes it unforgettable.

I first saw Blade Runner and didn’t get it. Now, I can’t stop thinking about watching it. The rain, the neon, the haunting stillness—every frame feels carve out of future memory. Rutger Hauer’s “tear in rain’ speech still floors me, and Vangelis’ score makes the city feel alive and dying at once. It’s noir with circuitry, a detective story wrapped around questions of identity, mortality, and what makes us human. You can feel the melancholy in the machinery. The more I revisit it, the more it replicates something real. Few films age this well—or beautifully.

Shaun of the Dead isn’t just a rom-zoom-com—it’s Edgar Wright announcing himself as a filmmaker with razor-sharp instincts and a metronome for a heart. Every cut, cue, and camera whip is bang on, turning hockey sticks and cricket bats into cinematic ballet. It’s packed with gags, not just thrown away like a one-hit-wonder—each one is aimed with a purpose. Beneath the gore and giggles is a surprisingly sincere tale of arrested development, friendship, and finding purpose at the world’s end. Pegg and Frost bring heart; Wright brings the rhythm. It’s clever, chaotic, and crafted to within an inch of its undead life.