Film Reviews by griggs

Strange on the Third Floor has a reputation as “the first film noir.” But I’m not convinced that makes it essential viewing. It’s more a fever dream of Dutch angles, expressionistic lighting and overwrought acting than a fully formed thriller. Peter Lorre finally appear—with silent menace—in the last 10 minutes, and suddenly it feels like a real film. Shame, then, that the rest of it is so stiff. The leads are acting so much as clawing through the script, and the dialogue doesn’t help. It’s a curiosity, not a classic—worth watching if you love noir history, but not much more.

Bleak, raw, and unexpectedly poetic, this one punches far above its weight. What starts as a kitchen-sink drama curdles into something more anarchic, more tragic—a cry of pain dressed in denim and punk. The performances are ferociously good, especially from Linda Manz, whose defiant snarl masks something heartbreakingly fragile. Hopper directs like he’s exorcising demons, with jagged energy and flashes of grace. It’s about broken families, shattered innocence, and the kind of damage that gets passed down like bad furniture. Not an easy watch, but a necessary one. You don’t just see the wreckage—you feel the impact.

Assault on Precinct 13 isn’t just a film—it’s a rite of passage for cinema fans. Made on a shoestring budget and powered by pure nerve, Carpenter’s urban cool Western turns a forgotten police station into ground zero for apocalyptic cool. The synth score alone deserves its own fan club. There’s barely any plot, barely a budget, and barely any dialogue—but somehow it’s electric. Every frame hums with menace, attitude, and outsider energy. It’s Rio Bravo reimagined by someone who worships Howard Hawks, George Romero, and dirty ‘70s LA. Low on gloss, high on myth—this is DIY legend-making at its finest.

Every time I rewatch The Third Man, I half wish I could forget it just to experience that entrance, that zither, that reveal, all over again. It’s a film soaked in postwar paranoia and rain-slick shadows, where even the Ferris wheel feels menacing. Cotten plays confusion beautifully, and Welles looms large off screen—charming, corrupt, and chilling. Reed’s direction is razor-sharp, twisting Vienna into a haunted maze of cobbled lies. It’s the rare thriller that’s as clever with its visuals as it is with its dialogue. Honestly, if you’ve not seen it, I envy you. And if you have—watch it again, and again.

Taxi Driver grabs you by the collar and drags you through a neon-lit hellscape of insomnia, alienation, and urban rot. De Niro’s Travis Bickle is both a ticking time bomb and a mirror held up to a sick society—equal parts pathetic and petrifying. Scorsese directs like a man possessed, making every frame drip with menace and madness. The city breathes, festers, and pulses with threat. And Bernard Herrrman’s final score? A sleazy lullaby for the damned. It’s not just a descent into darkness—it’s a guided tour. You come out changed. Or at least, you should be worried if you don’t.

Kubrick’s dystopia still stings. A Clockwork Orange is a brutal ballet of free will and state control, laced with irony and milk-plus menace. Malcolm McDowell is magnetic—repulsive and irresistible in equal measure—as Alex, the droog with a taste for Ludwig van and a penchant for mayhem. The film’s design is as sharp as a switchblade, and its satire cuts just as deep. It's disturbing, yes—but also darkly funny, perversely stylish, and philosophically loaded. But by the time the credits roll, you feel battered and oddly exhilarated. A cautionary tale, served cold, with a side of Beethoven’s Ninth.

More than just a zombie flick, Night of the Living Dead gnaws at America’s conscience. It’s raw, tense, and stripped of any comforting gloss—like a bad dream that won’t let you wake. Duane Jones brings a calm authority that makes what follows all the more effective. Romero builds dread with nothing but shadows, silence and social decay. It’s not the flesh-eating that stays with you, but the sense that civilisation is already halfway gone. Bu the time the final shot rolls, the horror isn’t the dead—it’s the living within. Still Chilling. Still Brilliant. Still painfully relevant.

Of all of Tarantino’s films, Jackie Brown might be the one I return to most. It’s the hangout movie hiding in plain sight—least showy than Pulp Fiction, but far more soulful. Pam Grier is magnetic, world-weary and wonderful, while Robert Forster delivers heartbreak, with a side of hair plugs. The plot plays with the Rashomon effect, replaying the same heist from shifting angles—not to confuse, but to deepen our grasp of motive and mood. What lingers in melancholy: second chances, missed connections, and cool heads under pressure. It steals your heart without firing a shot.

La Haine hits like a gut punch in monochrome. It’s angry, yes—but also razor-sharp, bleakly funny and tragically clear-eyed. The film tracks three young men over 24 hours in a pressure cooker of police violence and poverty, where time doesn’t just—tick it hisses. Kassovitz directs with fire and flair, while the cast (especially Cassel) smoulder with restless energy. What lingers is the tension—coiled, crackling, and close to the skin. Every scene feels like a naked flame hovering over petrol. It’s not just what happens, but how it’s framed: with style, and a terrible clarity. La Haine doesn’t shout—it simmers, and that’s what makes it unforgettable.

I first saw Blade Runner and didn’t get it. Now, I can’t stop thinking about watching it. The rain, the neon, the haunting stillness—every frame feels carve out of future memory. Rutger Hauer’s “tear in rain’ speech still floors me, and Vangelis’ score makes the city feel alive and dying at once. It’s noir with circuitry, a detective story wrapped around questions of identity, mortality, and what makes us human. You can feel the melancholy in the machinery. The more I revisit it, the more it replicates something real. Few films age this well—or beautifully.

Shaun of the Dead isn’t just a rom-zoom-com—it’s Edgar Wright announcing himself as a filmmaker with razor-sharp instincts and a metronome for a heart. Every cut, cue, and camera whip is bang on, turning hockey sticks and cricket bats into cinematic ballet. It’s packed with gags, not just thrown away like a one-hit-wonder—each one is aimed with a purpose. Beneath the gore and giggles is a surprisingly sincere tale of arrested development, friendship, and finding purpose at the world’s end. Pegg and Frost bring heart; Wright brings the rhythm. It’s clever, chaotic, and crafted to within an inch of its undead life.

Vertigo isn’t just about fear of heights—it’s about the sheer drop of desire, identity, and delusion. Hitchcock’s slow-burn spiral left me rattled in all the right ways. Stewart plays haunted like no one else, and Novak walks the line between dream and deception so delicately it hurts. It’s as much a ghost story as a love story—if love can survive being reshaped by male fantasy. The pacing’s glacial at times, but the payoff is hypnotic. That final shot? It didn’t just stay with me—it circled in my mind for days. Still not sure I have landed.

Yes, it’s got the baggage of being “the greatest film ever made,” but Citizen Kane still holds up astonishingly well. Welles practically reinvented the cinematic playbook before he was old enough to rent a car, let alone wreck one. The fractured structure, deep focus, and shadowy bravado feel as fresh as ever—like film noir’s brainy older cousin. It’s a riddle wrapped in a newsreel, but the emotional sting of that final shot lands every time. If it’s a tale of power and loss, it’s also a warning: don’t spend your life collecting things when you should’ve been making memories.

Seeing Stop Making Sense on the big screen was like being baptised in funk. A24’s rerelease doesn’t just restore the image—it resurrects the energy. Byrne enters solo with his boombox, and by the end, it’s a full-blown evangelical service in oversized suiting. The camerawork is unusually fluid for a concert film—more like choreography than coverage—and the sound mix is crisp enough to feel the sweat. It’s pure joy, artfully staged but never self-conscious. I grinned like a maniac for 88 minutes and left the cinema feeling oddly hopeful. Not many films make your legs twitch and your heart swell.

There’s not a frame in The Battle of Algiers that doesn’t feel urgent. Shot like a newsreel but paced like a thriller, it drops you in the crossfire and dares you to take sides. The moral lines blur, then vanish. Pontecorvo’s direction is razor-sharp—clinical, but never cold—and Morricone’s score ratchets up the tension until it’s almost unbearable. It’s rare for a film to feel this politically alive, even rarer for it to hold up a mirror without flinching. By the end, you’re shaken, stirred, and uncomfortably implicated. It may be a history lesson, but it punches like prophecy.