Film Reviews by griggs

Greg Araki’s The Doom Generation is full-throttle chaos from the jump—a shrieking, blood-soaked, neon-lit howl that doesn’t unfold so much as explode, and then explode again. And again. It’s sex, violence, and absurdity on repeat, each cycle more deranged than the last—and somehow, that repetition becomes the point.

Very much a time capsule of mid-’90s teenage nihilism, it plays like a queer filmmaker scribbled a hetero love triangle on the back of a burning napkin while high on sugar, rage, and discarded MTV clips—only for the emotional core to emerge in the quiet chemistry between the two men.

Part dystopian road movie, part deranged rom-com, part grotesque social satire, it walks a fine line between parody and despair. The acting’s deliberately flat, the world totally unhinged, and every punchline is dipped in acid. Trashy, ugly, magnetic mayhem—and I couldn’t look away.

September 5 is not the film I expected. Given the reviews I’d read beforehand, I was expecting this to be pro-Israel propaganda, with many critics pointing to the timing of its release and references to the Holocaust as a means of bias. Yet, I found the film strangely lacking in terms of the actual conflict in the Middle East, not that I expected any comment on today’s conflicts, but contextualisation of the events of the time. Instead, it takes a different approach, examining how the 1972 Munich Olympic terrorist attack, where 11 Israeli hostages were killed by the Palestinian Black September group, along with five of the attackers and one West German police officer, became the first major crisis broadcast live on television, highlighting how even the most sombre coverage inevitably turns into a form of entertainment.

The production design was excellent, enabling the most gripping aspects of the film, the chaotic scramble behind the scenes: networks bickering over satellite access, sports and news departments clashing over who should cover the events. Whilst real footage of the news broadcasts are used, actual archival footage of the events is used sparingly, keeping it out of reach. Seeing a fleeting glimpse of a young Trevor McDonald was also a treat.

John Magaro shines as an ABC producer trying to wrangle order from the madness. At the same time, Leonie Benesch is superb as a German translator navigating uncomfortable questions about her country's past - when it is suggested to her that all Germans were willing executioners. A reputation and image that by holding the Olympic Games, West Germany was trying to lose.

September 5 doesn’t dig deep into politics; if there are parallels to be drawn with current events, it leaves them to you. And that is how the film succeeds in being a succinct media procedural, offering a compelling look at the news machine scrambling to cover history in real time. The film captures the tension of live broadcasting, where technical hurdles and corporate egos clash with the gravity of unfolding tragedy. Strong performances from the cast keep things engaging as you are immersed in the control room chaos. It may not be the film I expected, but as a window into the birth of 24-hour news culture, it’s undeniably interesting.

Spring in a Small Town is a quiet stunner–delicate, melancholic, and profoundly affecting. Directed by Fei Mu in 1948, it follows a woman stuck in a crumbling marriage whose life is upended when her former lover–now her husband’s friend–comes to visit. It’s a love triangle but without the melodrama. Everything’s handled with aching restraint.

Unlike most films from that era in China, it avoids politics entirely, focusing on personal emotion. That choice nearly doomed it, as Mao’s regime labelled it “bourgeois” and buried it for decades. It’s rediscovery is a gift.

The cinematography is lyrical, full of quite ruins and long silences, with an almost European art film feel–think early French realism or pre-Ozu Japan. The cast, especially Wei Wei, are superb, giving performances full of longing and nuance.

It’s slow, subtle, and haunting. This little masterpiece is not for the impatient but for those who like their heartbreak poetic.

They’ve officially turned the dial past 11 and snapped it off. John Wick 4 is a three-hour symphony of carnage—elegant, relentless, and bordering on mythic. It takes the balletic violence of John Wick 3, straps it to a flaming muscle car, and drives it up the Sacré-Cœur steps. Twice.

The globe-trotting plot is mostly nonsense—half ancient ritual, half loyalty card programme—but who’s here for logic? You’re here for set pieces, and this film delivers like it’s being paid per corpse. Donnie Yen is the standout: blind, deadly, and somehow charming while murdering half of Paris. Bill Skarsgård swans about like a Eurotrash Bond villain, and the whole thing plays like The Good, the Bad and the Extremely Well-Dressed.

The franchise’s ongoing love letter to The Warriors continues, most explicitly in the radio DJ who calmly narrates the carnage, dispatching assassins like a silky-voiced oracle with a stack of vinyl and bloodlust. It’s a pulpy homage that deepens the series’ comic-book mythology, adding noir flair to the madness.

There’s also something quietly reminiscent of Jean-Jacques Beineix’s Diva at play—not just in the Paris setting, but in the way the film channels that cinéma du look flair: blending pulp action with operatic flourish, rigid codes of honour, and haute couture violence. It’s a spiritual cousin in style, if not in story—where even murder feels like performance art staged in a cathedral of excess.

By now, the Wickiverse has fully embraced its own absurdity. It’s Keanu as a stoic samurai-cowboy-Jesus, punching through stained glass and existential dread. Preposterous? Yes. But also pure action cinema nirvana—long, loud, glorious.

I was eager to finally watch this cult classic, though it’s hard to ignore how its once-radiant glow has dimmed. Diva is obsessed with looking cool–in that regard, it absolutely succeeds. Every frame is stylish and meticulously composed. But beyond that, there’s not much to hold onto. Alex Cox was right to call it an ‘Art Director’s film’–the aesthetic is everything, while the story is an afterthought. The plot is wafer-thin, following a hapless courier who stumbles into a criminal conspiracy, though it does deliver one excellent chase sequence through Paris at night. And, of course, I’ll never forget the right way to butter a baguette now. It’s easy to see how Diva influenced Luc Besson and Leos Carax with its Cinéma du Look styling, but in the end, it’s more of a mood piece than a genuinely gripping film.

Miracle Mile is the kind of film that sneaks up on you. What begins as a quirky, synth-soaked ‘80s romance quickly pivots into something far darker—a tense, time-ticking thriller about the possible end of the world. It plays with your expectations and does it smartly. 

It reminded me of After Hours, with its eerie, empty streets and a rising sense of urban madness. Anthony Edwards is excellent as the everyman suddenly thrust into chaos, trying to make sense of increasingly alarming events. As the city stirs, panic spreads—looting, violence, and hysteria erupt in waves.

What’s unnerving is how the film keeps you guessing: is this happening or just a massive misunderstanding? It doesn’t quite pack the punch of Scorsese’s film, perhaps because faceless nuclear doom is harder to connect with than the weirdness of late-night city dwellers. Still, it’s a compelling, offbeat descent into dread—uneven but gripping.

The Wild Pear Tree is a slow, meandering wander through the frustrations of youth, homecoming, and generational disappointment. It’s all long conversations, philosophical tangents, and metaphor-heavy visuals—but somehow, it works. Sinan is both insufferable and relatable, and the dynamic with his charming wreck of a father quietly steals the film. It’s overlong, sure, but if you’re in the mood for something introspective and beautifully shot, this one digs deep—and then keeps digging.

Blood for Dracula is what happens when Andy Warhol produces a vampire film but forgets to include a pulse. Udo Kier stars as a tubercular, virgin-obsessed Count who leaves a bloodless Romania for Italy, where the local virgins are all too busy being ravished by a communist handyman with muscles and a moustache. What follows is a two-hour fever dream of incest, rape, domestic violence, and a sprinkling of paedophilia, all wrapped in painfully dry, soundless sex scenes and Marxism. The acting is wooden, the accents criminal, and the political commentary so blunt it could bruise fruit. And yet—somehow—it’s mesmerising. Praise be to the 4K UHD restoration, which polishes this sleazy oddity into a thing of warped beauty. The colours pop, the grain dances, and Kier’s sweaty desperation has never looked sharper. It’s tasteless, tone-deaf, utterly absurd… and weirdly more watchable than Twilight.

Cronenberg’s Shivers is an early, grubby glimpse into the body horror maestro he’d later become. However, fans of his cooler, more cerebral work may struggle to stomach this one. It’s lo-fi, low-budget, and unashamedly schlocky—more exploitation flick than art-house sci-fi.

The first act is weak, and the tone often veers into the deeply dodgy, with disturbing sexual violence and dodgy gender politics that feel especially grim today. It’s the kind of film you can’t quite believe ever got made, let alone by someone destined for the cultural canon. And yet… by the final act, Cronenberg’s direction finds a grisly rhythm.

Beneath the sleaze lies something uncomfortably fascinating: an unfiltered vision that’s uncompromising, ambitious, and squirm-inducing. It may not be his finest hour, but it’s undeniably Cronenbergian—ugly, raw, and eerily prophetic. An unsettling oddity that’s hard to recommend but harder to dismiss. You don’t watch Shivers so much as survive it.

The Collector offers a singular take on psychological horror—a slow-burn descent that shuns the usual genre trappings. Its distinctiveness makes it all the more unsettling. There are no frantic twists, no tidy resolution—just a creeping unease that steadily tightens its grip as you're drawn deeper into the warped mind of a man on the edge. This isn't about shocks; it’s about a suffocating intimacy, the way the film locks you in with its captive, inch by inch.

Terence Stamp delivers one of his most chilling performances, full of quiet menace. Samantha Eggar is equally compelling, grounding the story with a raw, emotional presence that makes the unfolding horror disturbingly real.

What truly unsettles is the film’s restraint. Tension builds not through spectacle but through atmosphere, character, and a score that gnaws at the edges of your psyche. It doesn’t offer comfort or distance—it stares straight through you and refuses to blink.

The Phoenician Scheme is Wes Anderson in soft focus—a film so buttoned-up it forgets to breathe. The dollhouse compositions, whimsical deadpan, and gallery of gentle eccentrics are all present. Still, it’s like someone swapped out the espresso for herbal tea. The colour palette is washed out, the pace dawdles and Benicio Del Toro keeps repeating that he feels “very safe.” He’s not wrong. Anderson plays it safe, too—no real jeopardy, sharp edges, just a muted stroll through melancholy miniatures.

Michael Cera, who usually triggers a full-body cringe, somehow sneaks past my defences, delivering a low-key performance that works in this oddly sedate world. But Mia Threapleton quietly lifts the whole thing, slipping out with the film’s emotional core tucked in her coat pocket. She’s the pulse in a movie that often feels like it’s under sedation.

The narrative is more straightforward than Anderson’s recent jigsaw puzzles, but strangely, it still lands with a thud. There’s an episodic drift that never quite connects to something meaningful. By the time the credits roll, you’re unsure what was at stake—or if it mattered. What might’ve been wry or charming comes across as wistful, almost mournful. It’s Anderson with all the props and none of the pep.

The Big Combo is classic noir, a dogged cop so obsessed with nailing the villain that he loses sight of everything else, including his own moral compass. The plot’s straightforward, even a little thin in places, but how it’s told makes it feel surprisingly modern. Cornel Wilde doesn’t leave much of a mark as the lead, but Richard Conte owns the film as the ruthless, smooth-talking Mr Brown—one of noir’s finest baddies.

Beyond the shadows and shootouts, there’s a surprisingly tender, clearly coded relationship between Mr Brown’s henchmen, Fanti and Mingo—intimate, domestic, and rather moving. Add in some eyebrow-raising elements like sadomasochism, a clear shoe/foot fetish, and even a bold nod to oral sex, and you’ve got something far more daring than your typical ’50s crime flick.

The cinematography is breathtaking—all chiaroscuro and cigarette smoke—while the film’s treatment of power, obsession and identity earns it a spot near the top of the noir canon. It’s a film that seduces with its shadows but stays with you because of what dares to play out in the dark.

I’ll admit my naivety upfront—I’d never heard of Jean-Michel Basquiat before watching this, but what a way to discover him. Basquiat is a powerful, engaging film, and that’s before you even get to the cast. Jeffrey Wright is brilliant, David Bowie as Warhol is surreal, and there are great turns from Benicio del Toro, Dennis Hopper, and Gary Oldman. The soundtrack is just as striking—Tom Waits, Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, The Rolling Stones, The Pogues, and, of course, Bowie, all help set the mood. The story flows with real energy and emotion; I was glued to the screen. It’s stylish, moving, and totally absorbing from start to finish.

Fritz Lang's The Woman in the Window is a taut little noir, dripping with shadows, suspense, and that creeping sense of doom. It feels like a dry run for Scarlet Street, which came a year later with the same leads—Joan Bennett and Edward G. Robinson—but Window more than holds its own. The story's a classic noir spiral: a meek man meets a mysterious woman and finds himself caught in a web of murder and regret. It's lean, moody, and morally murky. It's not quite as layered as Scarlet, but still a sharp, stylish thriller with real bite.

Spider is an intriguing psychological slow-burn, steeped in a haunting atmosphere and anchored by a superb performance from Ralph Fiennes. The casting is impeccable, with the entire ensemble delivering quietly powerful turns. Yet, for all its unsettling mood and emotional complexity, the film maintains a certain distance from the viewer. It’s absorbing rather than gripping—intellectually engaging but emotionally remote. A fascinating and finely crafted piece, though one that keeps you just out of reach.