Film Reviews by griggs

Last Breath is a perfectly serviceable but oddly lifeless dramatisation of a harrowing real-life diving incident. Alex Parkinson, who also co-directed the documentary version, brings attention to detail but fails to convey any sense of jeopardy or urgency. Every expected beat is dutifully ticked off, from the futility of the mission to the swelling score, but the tension is sorely lacking. Despite the cast giving it a decent go, the whole thing feels inert, flatly directed and choppily edited. Functional, but far from gripping.

Lollipop is a punchy little kitchen sink drama that aims for those Ken Loach and Mike Leigh beats—and gives it a damned good go. It’s gritty, humane, and quietly furious. The cast is superb, delivering raw, believable performances that pull you straight in. It’s hard not to feel angry watching it—once again, it takes a film to expose the system’s failings. Not perfect, but undeniably powerful. One that sticks with you—just like the name suggests.

I really wanted Dangerous Animals to be a bitey shark-fest but it ended up like a soggy fish finger.

The Cup is a modest yet endearing film that gently explores the intersection of tradition and modernity. Set in a Tibetan monastery, it follows a group of young monks whose fascination with the World Cup brings humour and warmth to the narrative. Though the filmmaking is unpolished and straightforward, the story’s sincerity carries it through. It offers thoughtful cultural insights and a quiet reflection on change, faith, and youthful curiosity. The highest praise I can offer is that it left me with a genuine, heartfelt smile. A gentle, rewarding watch—if not a truly remarkable one.

The Cocoanuts is peak early Marx Brothers—chaotic, clever, and constantly derailed by dreadful musical numbers. Groucho and Chico shine with rapid-fire nonsense, Harpo’s mischief lands and Dumont is her usual foil. But the songs? Absolutely grating. Worth a skim for the comedy, but skip the crooning.

Whereas Animal Crackers is a marked step up. The gags are sharper, the pacing tighter, and the musical numbers are entertaining. Songs like “Hooray for Captain Spaulding” are witty and plot-relevant, not just filler between farce. Groucho is in top form as the pompous explorer. At the same time, Chico and Harpo bring their usual blend of mischief and musicality. Margaret Dumont is once again the perfect comic foil. Zeppo, however, looks deeply uncomfortable—like he wandered onto the set by accident and stayed out of politeness. No wonder he swapped acting for business. He’s not bad, just severely out of place.

Horse Feathers finds the Marx Brothers enrolled in college, which is just an excuse for academic anarchy, bad puns, and a football game that obeys no rules known to man or sport. Groucho plays the newly appointed president of Huxley College with his usual disdain for logic, decency, and faculty meetings. Chico and Harpo crash the campus like two mischievous wrecking balls, and the whole thing moves at a pace faster than you can say, “Swordfish.” The plot’s threadbare, but the gags come thick and fast. Silly, surreal, and packed with one-liners—it’s a 2:2 degree in Marxist comedy.

Tareque Masud’s debut The Clay Bird is a quietly affecting coming-of-age tale set against the backdrop of a nation on the brink. It’s rich in symbolism—songs about caged birds, the titular clay bird itself—all hinting at a longing for freedom, both personal and political. The child actors are outstanding, often outshining the adults.

It brought Kes to mind more than once: both films find aching beauty in a boy’s brief glimpses of freedom. Where Kes soars through Yorkshire grit, The Clay Bird drifts through spiritual and political turmoil. But both share a deep empathy for children boxed in by adult dogma, and both use birds as gentle, tragic symbols of escape.

While the film is thoughtful and deeply felt, Masud occasionally overdoes the stylistic touches, which can pull focus from the story’s emotional core. Still, as a first film, it’s ambitious and moving—a heartfelt portrait of innocence caught in the crossfire of ideology.

There’s no susceptible plot— just a procession of living icons from the life of an 18th-century Armenian poet. Pomegranates bleed like hearts, monks drift like smoke, and time folds in on itself like worn parchment. The Color of Pomegranates doesn’t so much tell a story as hum it—through gesture, texture, and ritual. It’s like absorbing a memory through the skin. Baffling, yes—but also sacred, strange, and undeniably beautiful. I spent most of it adrift, oddly spellbound. If Jodorowsky directed a fragrance advert, it might look like this. I don’t understand it, but I don’t think I need to. I just know I’ve seen something rare.

99 River Street is a cracking slice of noir, full of regret, grit, and people nursing the bruises of a life gone sideways. It’s packed with characters who once had dreams but now just try to stay afloat. And at the heart of it all, John Payne delivers a brilliant performance as the worn-down ex-boxer caught in a night that goes from bad to worse. The plot zips along, the tension builds nicely, and the whole thing looks terrific. A proper gem for fans of shadowy streets and dashed hopes.

Killing Them Softly is a stylish, slow-burn crime film that thinks it’s saying more than it actually does – but what’s there is still worth chewing on. The mob here isn’t just the mob; it’s Wall Street with spreadsheets, guns and blood. Everyone is promising change – from Obama’s speeches on the telly to Gandolfini’s washed-up hitman – but no one delivers. Into that vacuum steps Brad Pitt’s Jackie: cold-eyed, transactional, and ready to make things great again. Sound familiar?

The Last King of Scotland is gripping in parts, mostly thanks to a powerhouse performance from Forrest Whittaker—he completely disappears into the role of Idi Amin. A young James McAvoy also holds his own, playing the fictional doctor caught in Amin’s orbit. But while it’s well-acted, the film’s perspective is frustrating. It frames Uganda’s horror through the eyes of a white outsider, as if audiences couldn’t handle Africa without a tour guide. Worse still, it flirts with humanising Amin, glossing over the scale of his brutality. Stylish and watchable, yes—but also deeply flawed in what it chooses to focus on.

Osama is a harrowing, deeply affecting watch. Made just after the Taliban’s fall in 2003, one of the first films to show the brutal reality of life under their rule—especially for women. This isn’t dystopian fiction like The Handmaid’s Tale; it’s Afghanistan, a real country with millions of forgotten voices. Quiet, powerful, and devastating, the film doesn’t preach—it simply shows. And what it shows hits like a punch to the chest. Unforgettable.

Starry Eyes is a grim little shocker that feels oddly prescient in hindsight. Long before #MeToo blew the lid off Hollywood’s worst-kept secret, this film painted a nightmarish portrait of the industry’s rot—from casting couch sleaze to body-mangling ambition. Its vision of masochistic perfectionism is unsettling, sharp, and uncomfortably believable. Think Neon Demon meets The Substance, with a dash more grime.

There’s more than a whiff of Suspiria here, too—swap ballet for acting and the coven for a cultish talent agency, and you get a similar tale of transformation through torment. It’s Suspiria in LA, by way of Neon Demon, with a bit more blood and bile.

The final act cranks everything up to a slightly ridiculous degree. Still, the sheer energy and devilish commitment keep it on track. You won’t walk away feeling hopeful, but you will feel a profound sense of unease gnawing at your gut. Starry Eyes doesn’t just scratch at the surface—it claws deep, leaving you deeply affected.

About Endlessness is like staring out a rainy window and wondering where it all went wrong—but beautifully so. Roy Andersson serves up another tray of sad, still, vignettes where people drift through life pale as ghosts and just as haunted. It’s very Scandinavian: dry, deadpan, and steeped in quiet despair. Time feels frozen, colour’s been put on furlough, and joy is somewhere off-screen waiting for the bus.

About Endlessness might not uplift, but it nods knowingly from across the void. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes, that’s everything.

Night of the Comet is what happens when the apocalypse gets a perm and raids the clearance rail at TK Maxx. It’s radioactive kitsch: Valley Girls with Uzis, decomposing cops, and enough hairspray to punch a hole in the ozone layer. The plot? Who cares. It's a gloriously dumb romp that treats world-ending doom like a chance to try on leg warmers and shoot zombies in the face. Trash cinema at its most fashionable–camp, crass and completely deranged.

At times, it feels like it was co-directed by John Water and John Carpenter–half punk apocalypse, half trashy fashion shoot, with zombies loitering like bored teenagers outside Primark. But without the synths, sunglasses, stilettos or subversion, it's close but no cigar. It's definitely missing something that elevates it from pure kitsch to cult classic.

Can we please stop saying 28 Days Later invented running Zombies? Er... hello? These girls were sprinting from the undead in leg warmers twenty years earlier.

The Night Comes for Us is like The Raid’s unhinged cousin—absolutely drenched in macho energy, gore, and gunfire. It was sold to me as next-level chaos, and sure, it delivers mayhem in spades. But it’s also a testosterone-fuelled bloodbath that left me more exhausted than exhilarated. I didn’t enjoy The Raid much either, though I admired it—this one goes harder, but not smarter. That said, the fight choreography is genuinely impressive. Shame the rest feels so one-note.