Film Reviews by griggs

Wild, chaotic, and deeply romantic—The Lovers on the Bridge is like falling in love mid-explosion. Binoche and Lavant burn through the screen in this gorgeous, grimy, utterly unhinged fever dream.

28 Years Later manages to feel like a proper evolution of the original without losing the mood that made 28 Days Later such a genre high point. The film tackles death head-on—how we face it, how we prepare for it, and what we leave behind. It’s grief-stricken, sure, but never maudlin.

Alfie Williams is the breakout here: raw, grounded, quietly devastating. Jodie Comer brings weight and conviction, but Ralph Fiennes—brief though he is—steals every scene like he’s doing Shakespeare with blood on his boots.

The zombies, or rather the infected, have had an upgrade. They’re even faster, nastier, and somehow more symbolic—used sparingly but effectively. What really stuck, though, was the atmosphere: a kind of post-Brexit dread, with Britain isolated, fenced off, and abandoned while the rest of Europe carries on, keeping the infected at bay like a messy neighbour they no longer speak to. It’s not subtle, and that’s the point.

And that final scene? At first glance, it feels like a sly sequel hook—but the more it sinks in, the more unsettling it becomes. It’s not just setting up more mayhem—it drops a dark, provocative reference to Jimmy Savile that’s as bold as it is uncomfortable. Some will miss it entirely, others will ask if it’s too soon, and many will just sit there trying to process what they’ve seen. It’s a risky choice, deliberately jarring, and leaves you walking out not with a bang, but a queasy kind of dread.

Bamboozled is a sledgehammer to your senses, but that’s where Spike Lee operates best, especially with provocative material. It’s satire through and through, though I’m not convinced satire is always the sharpest tool for political change, especially when the film begins having to explain that this is satire, just in case you miss the point. The trouble is, the closer satire cuts to reality, the blurrier it becomes. You risk people laughing at the spectacle rather than interrogating it. Just look at Boris Johnson on Have I Got News for You—ripped to shreds every week, yet somehow became a national treasure, Mayor of London, and then Prime Minister, all because his bumbling became branding. Bamboozled flirts with that same trap. Its most scathing moments are also its most entertaining, which might explain why the message doesn’t always land. It’s bold, brash, and deeply uncomfortable—but the impact depends on whether you’re laughing with it, or just… laughing.

Sleepwalking Land is a slow, dreamlike road movie set in the wreckage of civil war in Mozambique. It follows a boy and an old man travelling through burnt-out buses and ghost towns, piecing together memories—some personal, some borrowed. The film's primary concern is memory: how it's preserved, distorted, and passed on like folklore. At times, the pace drags, and the symbolism feels a bit heavy-handed, but there's a profound poetry in how it blurs the line between reality and fantasy. It suggests that memory—imaginative, slippery, and stubborn—is sometimes all we have to survive, especially when everything else has already been lost.

Limbo is a strange little gem—dry, sad, and surprisingly funny. It’s set on a miserable Scottish island where four asylum seekers are basically stuck in purgatory, waiting to hear if they can stay. Whilst it sounds bleak, it’s full of warmth and oddball charm. Amir El-Masry is brilliant as Omar, a Syrian musician who barely speaks. With purposeful stillness, he says most with a look, permanently carrying around his oud as a physical representation of the weight of his past. Vikash Bhai is superb as his counterpoint, Omar’s endlessly optimistic, big-hearted, Freddie Mercury super-fan flatmate, who brings the laughs and some proper soul.

The film looks great too: washed-out colours with the odd splash of pink, blue or yellow, making it feel like a Wes Anderson film bleached by the sun. Most of the film is shot in 1.33:1, giving a square frame, which only enhances the feeling of the characters being boxed in. Not everything lands, but it’s thoughtful, funny, and quietly powerful. It's one of those films that sort of sneaks up on you.

Skeleton Key, directed by Iain Softley, is a solid slice of Southern Gothic with a spooky, sweat-drenched atmosphere. Kate Hudson gives a surprisingly grounded performance as a nurse who moves into a creaky old Louisiana mansion to care for an elderly stroke patient, only to stumble across a locked attic stuffed with Hoodoo paraphernalia. Gena Rowlands and John Hurt are both reliably unsettling, adding weight to the creeping paranoia. The film leans heavily on mood—blues music, buzzing insects, oppressive heat, and Softley keeps things taut, even when the plot gets a bit daft. Creepy fun, if not exactly a classic.

Turtles Can Fly is a haunting and deeply human anti-war film set in a Kurdish refugee camp on the Iraq–Turkey border, just before the 2003 US invasion of Iraq. Directed by Kurdish-Iranian filmmaker Bahman Ghobadi and shot with non-professional child actors—many of them real refugees—it captures the brutal reality of displacement with startling authenticity. The Kurds, long denied a homeland and caught in the crossfire of regional and global power plays, are shown here not as victims, but survivors.

The story follows “Satellite,” a resourceful teen who installs satellite dishes and leads children in landmine clearing operations—trading danger for scraps of food and dignity. The humour is dry and fleeting, but it’s there, giving the tragedy even more weight. Performances are raw, shaped by real trauma. The final sequence is utterly harrowing, but never feels exploitative. It’s not an easy watch, but it’s unforgettable—and it absolutely matters.

Incendies is one of those films that quietly crawls under your skin and refuses to leave. Denis Villeneuve sets the mood masterfully—long silences, oppressive lighting, and the slow, heavy pace all create a simmering sense of unease. It’s emotionally manipulative in the best way, and it completely worked on me. The story unfolds like a mystery-thriller with the emotional heft of a Greek tragedy, anchored by stunning performances.

Some stretches feel a bit pedestrian, dragging their feet slightly, but they do pay off, adding weight to the film’s more explosive turns. When the revelations come, they hit like a punch to the stomach. There’s a lingering question (no better word) of whether all the shocks are justified or just a bit much, but I can’t deny the film got to me. Bleak, bold, and beautifully done. It left me rattled.

Four Mothers wants to be heartfelt, but it doesn’t know how. The actors are clearly game to dig into something tangible, to give it something more—especially the excellent Fionnula Flanagan, who does more without dialogue than most do with reams of lines—but the script keeps undercutting them. Every moment of sincerity gets chased off by a quip directly out of a sitcom. It can’t decide if it’s a light comedy or a quiet tragedy, so it ends up being neither. The tonal whiplash extends to the visuals too, with jumpy editing and awkward handheld shots doing little to help. It’s not bad, in fact it’s nice, but just frustratingly bland.

Long Day’s Journey into Night is a slow, dreamy film that feels more like a memory than a story. It follows Luo Hongwu as he returns to his hometown, looking for a woman from his past. But the film isn’t about finding her—it’s about how lost he feels, and how memory can shift and blur over time.

The plot is hard to follow on purpose. Places change, people repeat, and objects like a book or a key seem to mean more than they should. The second half features a stunning one-hour single take that feels like drifting through a dream. It’s beautiful, strange, and a bit too long.

This isn’t a film for everyone. It doesn’t give clear answers, and it’s easy to get frustrated. But if you’re willing to go with the flow, there’s something quite moving underneath it all—a man trying to hold onto love, memory, and who he used to be.

Hidden is a masterclass in quiet tension. Haneke turns a simple premise—a family receiving anonymous surveillance tapes—into a slow-burning exploration of guilt, denial, and collective memory. The mystery is less about who’s watching than what the characters refuse to see. Daniel Auteuil is excellent as a man unravelling without ever raising his voice. The static camera work is deceptively simple, pulling you in and daring you to miss something. It’s unsettling in the best way—unanswered questions linger, not as plot holes, but as the point. The past haunts quietly, and Haneke makes sure you feel it.

Ballerina has the bones of something stylish, but the final product feels like it’s been patched together—and to be fair, it was. You can see the reshoots and delays in the seams. Ana de Armas gives it her all and carries the thing with poise, but the action’s mostly samey, and Gabriel Byrne’s accent is anyone’s guess. Keanu and Anjelica Huston are in and out far too quickly. It’s watchable, just not particularly memorable.

Memories of Underdevelopment is less a story than a slow-motion crisis of consciousness. We follow the protagonist Sergio, who is floating through Havana in a haze of culture, alienation, boredom, and despair, paralysed by his uselessness, a ghost of the old bourgeoisie. He’s stuck mourning European culture and sneering at the so-called underdeveloped masses. It’s a silently damning critique of class, complacency, and the cultural vacuum left behind when ideology becomes lifestyle.

 The form matches the content—fragmented, discursive, drenched in despair. Despite its cerebral tone, Memories of Underdevelopment is never visually dry. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea’s direction is razor-sharp, blending documentary footage, still photography, and inner monologue into something intimate and historical. The cinematography captures Havana in flux—elegant old façades crumbling under the weight of change. Long takes that allow moments to breathe and disintegrate. Sergio Corrieri holds the centre with a quietly haunted performance, all internalised arrogance and emotional drift, while the supporting cast feel intentionally subdued—more like symbols than characters, reflecting Sergio’s inability to connect with the world around him. Its emotional distance is part of the design—deliberate, alienating, and quietly devastating.

You get the sense Sergio’s not just watching a country change—he’s watching his own irrelevance set in, like mildew on marble. As a portrait of class inertia and cultural decay, it’s quietly scathing of those like Sergio, too cultured to join in, too comfortable to let go, and too cowardly to change. It’s Sergio who is underdeveloped, not the masses. He didn’t become stunted because of the revolution—he was hollow all along, and now there’s nothing left to hide it.

Jurassic World: Rebirth is a film that tries to recapture the magic but mostly ends up chasing its own tail. The dinos look okay, but there is no wow factor, as we’ve seen it all before. There are a couple of fun set pieces, but the plot’s recycled, and the new characters feel like action figures with dialogue. That said, it’s genuinely refreshing to see a Hispanic family take centre stage in today’s climate and become the heroes—even if, at times, they (and their adoptee) come off a bit gimmicky.

There’s the usual corporate greed subplot, the inevitable betrayal, and, of course, someone shouting “run!” a lot. It’s not terrible—just uninspired. If you’re in it for the roars and chases, you’ll be mildly entertained. Just don’t expect a resurrection of wonder

Portrait of Jennie is a dreamy, old-school romantic fantasy that leans heavily into the mystical, with no real concern for how any of it might actually work. Jennifer Jones flits in and out like a ghost with a mission, full of strange energy, while Joseph Cotten plays it straight to anchor things. The visuals are lovely, and the supporting cast adds real charm, but it’s more mood than substance—beautiful to look at but oddly hollow.