Film Reviews by griggs

There’s no denying Dressed to Kill is a visual feast—sumptuous, slow-mo dream sequences, that lush Pino Donaggio score, and De Palma’s usual bag of tricks all dialled up to 11. But underneath the surface, it’s a mess. The plot’s ridiculous, the dialogue’s ropey, and it leans hard on the tired and offensive transgender killer trope that feels even grimmer now than it probably did then. De Palma’s clearly revelling in his own fixations—this is Hitchcock through a dirty mirror—but at times it feels less like homage and more like a pervy art project. A stylish, problematic oddity that’s hard to love guilt-free.

I’m not usually sold on Sean Connery, but The Anderson Tapes might be his most convincing turn that I’ve seen. He plays a recently released crook plotting an ambitious heist on a swanky Upper East Side apartment block—what he doesn’t realise is that the whole place is locked down tighter than his wig. Every conversation, every movement, someone’s listening. It’s Sidney Lumet doing paranoia before it was fashionable—released just months after Nixon started taping himself into infamy.

The film’s structure is a nice change of pace—cutting between the build-up and the aftermath of the heist without tipping its hand too early. Connery’s gang sport masks lifted straight from Kansas City Confidential, giving it a nice nod to film noir. And Quincy Jones’ score? Full of electronic beeps, warbles, and jazzy chaos—it shouldn't work, but it does. The film may not be top-tier Lumet, but it is undeniably stylish, clever, and oddly playful for a movie of its genre.

The Milk of Sorrow takes its time–and then some. Set in post-conflict Peru, it’s all about inherited trauma, memory, and the stuff we carry whether we want to or not. The metaphors are everywhere–some land straight away, others feel like a puzzle you’re not sure you want to solve. It’s slow, sometimes frustratingly so, but there is also beauty in the way it’s shot and in the small rituals it lingers on. Magaly Solier gives a performance that’s quiet but hard to ignore. It doesn’t build to anything big, but the weight of it still hangs around.

Play Misty for Me is a very, very good directorial debut from Clint Eastwood—sharp, stylish, and impressively restrained. You can spot the fingerprints of his mentors throughout: Siegel's clean, unfussy editing and Leone's eye for a striking frame. But Eastwood keeps things more grounded and intimate. The real draw, though, is Jessica Walter. She's electric—vulnerable, seductive, terrifying—and the whole film hinges on her.

Eastwood's radio DJ mostly reacts to the chaos she brings, but it fits the material. The tension builds steadily, with a Roberta Flack montage offering a deceptively tranquil breather before things kick off again.

While it taps into the familiar "unstable woman" trope—this was doing the whole Fatal Attraction thing before it had a name—it does so with more atmosphere than cheap thrills. There's a psychological edge here that elevates it.

It's not quite a great film, but it's a tight, creepy, and well-crafted thriller. A rock-solid start to Eastwood's directing career—and a reminder of just how good Jessica Walter was.

Out of My Hand is one of those films that stays with you—not because it's flashy or loud, but because it feels lived-in. The first half, set in Liberia, is gripping stuff. Cisco, our lead, is a rubber plantation worker turned organiser, and you really feel his presence—he's got a voice, a cause, and you're right there with him. Once he moves to New York, though, things shift. He fades into the background, and the film becomes quieter and more introspective as ghosts from his past emerge. The title 'Out of My Hand' reflects Cisco's journey from a position of control in Liberia to a more vulnerable state in New York. In Liberia, he was a big fish in a small pond, but in New York, he is the smallest of fish in an ocean surrounded by sharks.

I couldn't shake the feeling something was missing. That might be due to my limited knowledge of Liberian history, which the film references without elaborating. How different it would've been with a Liberian director at the helm? Still, the mood, the performance, and the honesty of it all carry real weight.

Out of My Hand may not be flawless, but it is undeniably heartfelt. Its quiet power lies in its ability to evoke genuine emotions and connect with its audience on a deeper level.

The Marching Band is a gentle, low-stakes comedy about two brothers from opposite ends of the social spectrum who bond over a shared love of music. One’s all polish and precision; the other’s scrappy but spirited. They’re playing different tunes, but the passion’s the same. The film doesn’t do anything radical but hits the right notes with sincerity and charm. Pierre Lottin and Benjamin Lavernhe have great comic chemistry—awkward, antagonistic, and oddly touching. It’s pretty predictable and a bit too neat at times, but still easy to enjoy. You won’t be humming it for days, but it’s a pleasant enough tune while it lasts.

Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye has its moments—mostly when Cagney’s doing his thing: snarling, scheming, and chewing the scenery like it owes him money. It kicks off with a bang (literally), but the plot soon veers into daft territory, and by the end it’s anyone’s guess what’s actually going on. Still, there’s a certain pulp charm to it all. Gordon Douglas keeps things lively, if not entirely coherent. It’s no White Heat—more like its scrappier, sloppier cousin. Watchable enough if you’re in the mood for a crime flick with a bit of swagger and not much sense.

I wasn’t quite sure what I expected—probably something sexier, more in line with the title and Schrader’s usual edge—but American Gigolo turned out to be something far more interesting. It’s less about erotic thrills and more about style, psychology, and quiet desperation. Gere, all charm and expensive suits, is framed almost like a female sex worker in a classic melodrama—glamorous, transactional, and hollow. But here, no one’s coming to rescue him. He’s a man who fixes other people’s problems but can’t face his own, spiralling into paranoia and self-destruction.

There’s a flicker of The Conversation in how the tension creeps in—subtle, internal, and unnerving—culminating in scenes where Gere tears his flat and car apart, searching for something solid in a world slipping away.

One unexpected moment that felt like a little gift just for me: Gere confronting a man outside a cinema plastered with advertising for The Warriors. A small, throwaway detail—no doubt studio-mandated—but as a fan of the cult classic, it still felt special. And then there’s Moroder’s icy rework of Blondie’s Call Me, pulsing through the film like a glossy, detached lullaby for the emotionally numb.

Strange, stylish, and unexpectedly sad—American Gigolo stays with you.

Society kicks off like a naff cousin of Beverly Hills 90210—all plastic smiles, soft focus, and hair gel—before veering wildly into Cronenberg-meets-class-war territory. For most of the runtime, it flirts with satire but never fully leans in. The characters are shallow, the dialogue is cringeworthy, and the setting feels as synthetic as the leads' teeth. If it's meant to skewer the upper crust, the blade's pretty blunt—until the finale, when all bets are off.

The last ten minutes? Absolute chaos. Brian Yuzna lets rip, and Screaming Mad George earns his name with a gooey, grotesque set piece that's hard to forget. It's silly, yes—but also weirdly compelling. The rich aren't just out of touch—they're another species entirely. The metaphor isn't exactly subtle, but the way it's executed is so off-the-wall that it works.

It's not perfect—messy, uneven, often daft—but it leaves a mark. And that final sequence? Disgustingly delightful.

I knew Destiny was historically significant, but I didn’t expect it to hit so hard. It’s one thing to read about repression and resistance from afar—it’s another to watch it unfold through a story this intimate, this brave, and this quietly heartbreaking. The film opened a window into lives and struggles I’ll never fully understand. For 90 minutes, I felt the weight of it, not as an outsider looking in but as someone witnessing something real, raw, and still painfully relevant.

Destiny (or Dakan) isn’t the most polished film you’ll ever see, but the fact that it exists at all is remarkable. Released in 1997, it was the first West African feature to openly tackle homosexuality, and it stirred up a storm: protests, threats, and funding pulled mid-shoot. You can feel that tension throughout, but what’s surprising is how gentle and sincere the film is.

The plot’s pretty straightforward—two young men in love, parents who freak out, and a community that can’t accept it. There’s even a scene where Manga’s mum turns to witchcraft to “cure” him. It edges into the surreal but somehow still feels grounded.

Camara’s direction is simple, sometimes raw, but always heartfelt. The acting’s uneven, sure, but there’s a real emotional core. It’s not slick, but it doesn’t need to be. Destiny was—and still is—a landmark for LGBTQ+ stories in Africa. It is quietly defiant and all the more powerful for it.

Those Whom Death Refused is more significant than it is gripping, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth your time. As the first film to come out of Guinea-Bissau, its historical weight is undeniable. Rather than glorify the war for independence, Flora Gomes presents it as something quieter, more patient–no grand speeches, no rousing battles. Just ordinary people enduring extraordinary hardship. Telling this story through the eyes of a woman feels both rare and powerful.

Some scenes do have a tendency to drag, especially when the film leans into slow observational stretches. But others linger–particularly the moment news spreads of the independence leader’s death. The camera holds still as grief ripples across the camp, and you feel the weight of everything these people have survived.

This is less a war film than a mournful reflection–not for those who died, but for those left behind to rebuild, to rediscover their identity, and to imagine a future rooted in their own beliefs, myths, and culture.

House of Games is a film that impresses with its control. The structure, the dialogue, the pacing—it’s all meticulously managed. Watching it unfold feels like watching a stage magician: you know it’s a trick, but you still want to see how it’s pulled off.

If you start picking at the seams, there are a few wild coincidences, and the psychology leans heavily into pop-Freud. Still, it’s delivered with such confidence that you’re happy to be taken in. The cons are layered with flair, each one raising the stakes, and even when the final act veers into the theatrical, the tension holds firm.

Joe Mantegna is superb as the smooth-talking grifter—slick, sly, and oddly likeable. Lindsay Crouse is more of a mixed bag; her clipped, stagey delivery works in places but sometimes undercuts the realism. Nevertheless, this is a stylish, twisty thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat, knowing precisely what it’s doing.

I missed Novocaine in the cinema—wrong continent, wrong time. It’s not quite as wild or unhinged as it could have been, but there’s still a good bit of fun. Quaid holds it all together nicely, but Amber Midthunder walks away with the whole thing. It might not be a classic, but it's definitely better than expected.

I remember the buzz when Good Will Hunting dropped—two fresh-faced upstarts, Damon and Affleck, writing an Oscar-winning script? It felt like the start of a long, golden screenwriting partnership. With hindsight… well, it was more of a mic drop than a launchpad. Still, the film itself holds up remarkably well. It’s a smart, heartfelt drama that blends working-class grit with emotional honesty. Robin Williams is the soul of it—quiet, bruised, and brilliant. His scenes with Damon are the emotional anchor, and the “It’s not your fault” moment hits, even if you know it’s coming.

The writing walks a careful line: a bit sentimental, sure, and a touch tidy around the edges, but always sincere. There’s real craft here, whether or not they had outside help (cough, cough Goldman). It may have been a one-off, but it was a hell of a one-off—and they cashed that cheque like pros.

Road to Perdition is moody, mournful prestige pulp, wrapped in a father-son tragedy. Hanks swaps charm for cold resolve, Newman oozes weary gravitas, and Jude Law slithers in as a ghoulish photographer. The plot’s simple, but the atmosphere does the heavy lifting—rain, silence, and glances speak louder than gunfire. Conrad Hall’s cinematography is gorgeous: every frame could hang in a gallery. It’s not flashy, but it hits hard—an elegy told in shadows and silence.