Film Reviews by griggs

I started watching Burning, convinced I hadn’t seen it—then slowly realised I’d just erased the first 40 minutes from memory. Fitting, really, for a film steeped in ambiguity, obsession, and the gaps between what’s said and what’s meant. The plot follows Jong-su, a drifting, aspiring writer who reconnects with Haemi, a childhood acquaintance, just as she vanishes after introducing him to the enigmatic and unsettling Ben (Steven Yeun, perfectly cast as the human embodiment of a red flag). It’s a masterclass in slow-build tension: the pace is glacial, but the dread seeps in gradually, almost imperceptibly.  

Director Lee Chang-dong plays with perspective and unreliable memory, crafting a story that never resolves but refuses to let go. Yoo Ah-in gives a brilliantly contained performance, all awkward energy and imploding anxiety. The cinematography is muted but quietly stunning—especially in the twilight sequences. At times, it is maddeningly vague, but that opacity is part of its eerie, lingering power.

Be Kind Rewind might be an old-school pick now—VHS tapes feel like ancient relics—but its scrappy charm still holds up. It feels like something you would’ve thrown together in a garage—wonky costumes, dodgy props, and all. The homemade film remakes are pure joy: daft, messy, and full of heart. Jack Black’s in full chaotic mode, and while the plot’s thin, the DIY energy and sweet nostalgia make it a real treat.

If you liked this, try Superboys of Malegaon—same joyful, handmade spirit.

Logan isn’t about heroics but loss, memory, and saying goodbye. A proper end-of-the-road Western with claws, it swaps comic book chaos for something quieter, sadder, and more grounded. Its dusty landscapes, dystopian mood, and emotional weight hit hard, setting the tone for a farewell rather than a finale.

Jackman and Stewart bring a weary humanity to their roles—tired, haunted, and holding on by a thread. With her oversized sunglasses and calm, unreadable stare, Laura channels a miniature femme fatale—part Stanwyck, part silent fury. She’s the wild card in a story full of ghosts.

The film quietly shifts the X-Men metaphor from civil rights to migrant survival. The Latinx mutant children evoke exploited labour—created, used, and discarded by a profit-driven system. With Xavier’s school gone and the dream in ruins, resistance becomes an escape. It’s no longer about winning the fight but surviving it.

A fitting, mournful send-off.

Neptune Frost is a bold, rhythmic swirl—part sci-fi, part musical, all rebellion. It pulses with ideas about anti-colonialism, identity, and queerness but never spells anything out. The colours are electric—hot pinks, golds, and glowing blues—and the costumes are a full-on feast. The soundtrack thumps, the imagery sticks, and the whole thing feels handmade yet futuristic. It’s dense, often confusing, and makes no effort to hold your hand—but that’s part of the charm. Quite something.

Where the Sidewalk Ends is so hard-boiled it could crack teeth. The plot—crooked cops, mob ties, mistaken guilt—is tight but honestly becomes secondary to Dana Andrews' bruising of his knuckles and his soul. Watching him beat himself up for 90 minutes is the real hook here. Otto Preminger keeps it moody and sharp, with Gene Tierney lending unexpected warmth. It's a noir where the biggest villain might just be a conscience that won't shut up.

Tornado is a strange, striking film—its blend of Western and samurai visual language playing out against the bleak beauty of the Scottish Highlands. The story of a Japanese father and daughter crossing paths with Tim Roth’s gang carries real weight, even if the film keeps its backstory deliberately cryptic. The moody cinematography and evocative score do most of the heavy lifting, creating a rich, brooding atmosphere. Roth, near-mute, stalks the film like a man long resigned to his fate. It’s slow, yes—but intentionally so. An unusual film that lingers in the mind, even if it doesn’t quite satisfy.

Echo Valley is a decent enough thriller, though it never quite hits the heights it seems to be aiming for. It’s a shame it didn’t get a wider cinematic release—being on the big screen might’ve helped with the atmosphere. Like Hallow Road, it’s got that same mix of slightly unbelievable twists and messy decisions, all anchored by the idea of a parent doing whatever it takes for their child. Not great, but there’s enough here to keep you watching.

I've steered clear of Last Days for years—the synopsis alone made my skin crawl. Sadly, I wasn’t wrong. Gus Van Sant’s semi-fictionalised take on the final hours of a grunge icon (read: Kurt, but legally distinct) plays less like a film and more like one of those awkward reconstructions in true crime docs. Only here, there’s no context, no insight—just a mostly mute man shuffling about in a fog.

There’s no real attempt to explore addiction, illness, or inner turmoil. Just silence, mumbling, and a lot of moody wandering. It all feels strangely hollow, as if Van Sant wants the emotional heft of a documentary but without any of the responsibility.

And when not-Kurt’s body is found, Van Sant stages it with such cold and exacting precision it feels ripped from tabloid pages. It's invasive, joyless, and disturbingly self-satisfied. Best avoided.

War Witch is a serious, honourable film about an appalling subject—child soldiers in central Africa. It’s a solid attempt to turn real-life horror into fiction, handled carefully and sincerely. But while it’s commendably respectful, it’s also curiously short on surprises.

The story, which follows Komona and Magicien, blends war survival with a tragic love story, tied together by a mystical thread that never quite unsettles the way it should. Komona’s ghostly visions are intriguing in theory but feel undercooked—visually fleeting, emotionally distant.

The relationship at the film’s core brings warmth and the occasional moment of grace, with small joys flickering amid the violence. Yet major events often pass without much consequence. Things happen… and then we move on.

Nguyen means well, but there’s something slightly uneasy about a Vietnamese Canadian telling this particular African story. The result feels a bit too familiar, framed through an outsider’s eyes. It is undoubtedly well-crafted and worthy, but it lacks the ownership of the story and the spark that might’ve made it something more.

Me and You and Everyone We Know is one of those films that feels like it's trying to hug you while also asking you to consider the metaphysics of online chat. Miranda July's debut is not just fragile, funny, and deeply awkward, but it also carries a unique tone that is both endearing and odd.

The characters inhabit a world of broken speech and hopeful glances, where a connection is yearned for but rarely achieved. Amidst this, the film presents moments of genuine beauty — poetic and strange. However, there are also a few scenes that feel like performance art assignments turned into dialogue.

However, beneath the quirk, there's a disarmingly sincere exploration of loneliness and human connection. July's unique tone, if you can tune into it, offers a gentle, melancholic look at the weird ways we try to reach each other. It's not quite a love story, but more like a polite wave from across the void.

A yacht, a murder, and a bunch of Hollywood egos tearing each other apart—The Last of Sheila is like Cluedo with cocktails and career insecurity. The script’s razor-sharp, and the cast is clearly having a ball, but it’s the deliciously mean-spirited undercurrent that gives it bite. It sags a bit in the middle, and the final twist takes its time docking, but overall, it’s a campy, clever ride and a first-class ticket to petty cruelty.

The Ballad of Wallis Island takes a little while to settle as Tim Key and Tom Basden gradually shed the personas they’re best known for. But once they do, the film finds its rhythm as a warm, offbeat meditation on longing, awkwardness, and delusion. Key plays a lonely lottery winner who uses his fortune to reunite a defunct band—Basden and an unflappable Carey Mulligan—for a private gig on a remote island. Mulligan is coolly indifferent throughout, but Basden is clearly unsettled, both by performing to an audience of one and by his unresolved feelings for her. It’s a strange setup, but one handled with surprising tenderness. The humour is gentle and well-observed, with moments of genuine pathos tucked between the absurdities. There’s a sadness to the whole enterprise that never overwhelms but lingers just beneath the surface. A bittersweet, quietly funny gem that rewards patience and empathy in equal measure.

Coffee and Cigarettes unfolds like a mixtape of moody, deadpan conversations—filmed over 17 years but stitched together with surprising ease. Each black-and-white vignette offers a dose of caffeine, nicotine, and existential small talk, where the awkward silences often say more than the words. Some pairings fizz, others fizzle, but the whole thing hums with Jarmusch’s offbeat charm. It’s low-key, lo-fi, and oddly comforting—like bumping into cool strangers in a café you wish was yours.

“This story takes place in the 13th century of the Bambara Empire.” From the opening titles, Yeelen tells you it’s playing by its own rules. This is a hypnotic, esoteric journey through West African myth, where sacred relics, elemental magic and prophecy collide.

Souleymane Cissé made the film as a direct response to European ethnographic cinema—those stiff, outsider documentaries. Instead, this is storytelling from the inside: slow, symbolic, and brimming with ancestral weight. Nianankoro’s quest to confront his sorcerer father is both literal and deeply spiritual.

Not everything is explained, and that’s the point. The symbolism pulses with meaning, even if you can’t always grasp it—and maybe you’re not supposed to. It’s not a film that holds your hand, but it does cast a spell.

Yeelen is one of the most transporting films I’ve ever seen. Cinema as ritual.

Burn After Reading initially gave me the distinct impression I'd seen it before—though in reality, I’d simply been overexposed to the trailer, which remains sharper and more consistently amusing than the film itself. The Coens assemble a formidable cast and a premise brimming with farcical promise, but the narrative never quite picks up the pace. Tonally, it veers between dark satire and absurdist thriller, often without fully committing to either. Still, there’s real craftsmanship in the writing that might reveal more on a second viewing—once expectations have been suitably adjusted. It’s clever, but not as hilarious or incisive as it seems to think. Yet somehow, it sticks with you—odd, offbeat, and just intriguing enough to warrant another spin.