Film Reviews by griggs

Under the Volcano feels like watching a man unravel in real time. Albert Finney is astonishing—easily one of the finest portrayals of a drunk ever put on screen. No camera tricks, no slo-mo stumbles, just pure performance. You half expect vultures to start circling him. The film plunges you straight into Finney’s tortured mind and dares you to keep up. It’s sweaty, surreal, and often punishing, but there’s a strange beauty in the chaos. Not an easy watch, but certainly an unforgettable one. Like tequila for breakfast—probably ill-advised, but it definitely leaves a mark.

A mythological take on his childhood in Chile, The Dance of Reality sees Jodorowsky return to filmmaking after more than two decades, and he’s clearly not lost his taste for the surreal. It’s packed with visual metaphors, absurdist humour, spiritual musings, and dreamy fantasy detours—all delivered with his usual madcap flair. He dabbles in CGI too—not exactly state-of-the-art, but effective enough to stage a moment even Hitchcock might have admired.

With Jodorowsky, it sometimes feels like he’s making films for his own amusement, but on this occasion, he opens the door to the joke wider than ever. Warmth and tenderness are buried beneath all the wild imagery and philosophical wanderings. It’s still strange and dense, but there’s a soul here, a genuine attempt to connect. In fact, it’s probably his most welcoming film—surrealism with a human face. Whether intentional or not, it feels like Jodorowsky’s been watching Wes Anderson in the intervening years, the sets, the colours, the framing, and the plot structure. A wild, wise, and whimsical trip—often baffling, occasionally brilliant, and never dull.

A raw, scrappy snapshot of queer teen life in early ’90s LA, Totally F***ed Up is messy in all the right ways. Gregg Araki ditches polish for an unapologetic honesty, throwing us into a DIY patchwork of angst, irony, and punk-fuelled rebellion. It’s part video diary, part group therapy, with a cast of disaffected teens forming a fragile chosen family. Chaotic, angry, and strangely tender—it captures that feeling of being young, lost, and just trying to survive with an authenticity that's hard to come by.

Smokin’ Aces is all noise, no substance. It throws a dozen assassins, FBI agents, and mobsters into a blender and hopes chaos equals cool. There’s style to burn—fast cuts, big guns, flashy suits—but not much sense beneath it all. The cast is stacked, but most are wasted in paper-thin roles. It’s like Guy Ritchie on Red Bull, minus the wit. Occasionally fun, mostly exhausting. A film that mistakes excess for excitement.

Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song isn’t so much a film as a cinematic Molotov cocktail. As a narrative, it’s all over the place—jagged, repetitive, and hypnotically slow in parts. With its long musical interludes and fractured structure, it feels more like a protest performance than a traditional story. But as a cultural artefact? Five stars, no question.

It’s a raw, experimental howl of political rage—defiantly Black, fiercely anti-establishment. Van Peebles made it entirely on his own terms, and it shows: rough, angry, and brimming with intent. That said, the early scenes involving his real-life son, Mario van Peebles, are genuinely uncomfortable. What’s framed as revolutionary ends up feeling exploitative—and frankly, just wrong. Still, the film’s impact is seismic. It’s not here to entertain—it’s here to provoke. And on that front, it delivers.

It’s rare for a remake to come anywhere near the original, especially when Hollywood tries to redo a foreign classic. But Breathless gets surprisingly close. It’s not perfect, but it’s far better than it has any right to be. Richard Gere struts through the film like he owns the screen, oozing charisma in a way that almost matches Belmondo’s charm in the original.

The whole thing looks fantastic—bathed in neon, soaked in style, and shot in locations that make you want to hop in a convertible and drive into the desert. The filming techniques are wonderfully retro: sped-up car chases, rear-projection driving shots—it all feels like a love letter to a bygone era of cinema. There’s a definite charm to how out-of-time it all is. It’s slick, silly, and full of energy. A stylish American remix of a French classic that doesn’t disgrace itself.

Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning is a fitting send-off—for the franchise or at least for Cruise’s Ethan Hunt. It’s packed with fun, slick set pieces, and that classic MI tension. I’ll happily rewatch it (especially for Hayley Atwell, who frankly deserves her own spin-off). But let’s be honest: it’s way too long. At nearly three hours, it drags in parts and could’ve done with a good trim. Still, it’s exciting, confident, and occasionally quite mad—which is exactly what you want from this series. Not perfect, but a strong final(ish) bow. And yes, Cruise still runs like the world depends on it.

Bellflower wants to be a poetic howl about love, masculinity, and the end of the world—but mostly it’s just lads sulking and setting things on fire. There’s definitely something admirable about how scrappy and handmade it all feels. The Mad Max fantasies, the DIY flamethrowers—it’s the stuff of late-night stoner chats made real. Shame it’s all so overwrought. The visuals are bold but headachey, and the characters are more brooding than interesting. You can squint and see a good idea somewhere in the smoke, but it’s buried under too much self-importance and not enough heart. It’s got ambition, I’ll give it that—but ambition alone doesn’t make a film good. It makes it loud, messy, and just a bit exhausting.

Colt Special 38 Squad is a surprisingly straight-laced slice of ‘70s Italian crime, more stoic than sensational, but still a bit of a ride. The action kicks off early and rarely lets up, delivering a thrilling and engaging experience. Sometimes so fast it’s hard to track who’s shooting who—especially when the same bloke has a moustache in one scene and not in the next. The plot goes full grim with political bombings and terrorism, which grounds things in a way that feels very of-its-time. Still, it’s stylishly shot, with some gorgeous cityscapes and interiors that wouldn’t look out of place in an Argento film—moody wallpaper and all. The music slaps, there’s a blink-and-you-miss-it special squad montage, and some chaotic car stunts for good measure. It's not peak Poliziotteschi, but it's great fun and definitely worth a watch.

Tod Browning’s The Unknown is a circus fairytale dipped in sweat, sawdust, and pure twisted devotion. Lon Chaney—master of the silent scream—delivers a powerhouse performance as a performer with secrets and a dangerously intense crush. Joan Crawford, in an early role, is equally compelling as the emotionally bruised Nanon.

 It’s much more fun and far less exploitative than Freaks. Where that film leans on shock value, The Unknown thrives on genuine drama and physical performance. No gimmicks—just bold, bizarre storytelling and properly committed acting.

At under an hour, it’s tight, twisted, and wildly entertaining.

A Ghost Story is slow, strange, and quietly powerful—a ghost in a sheet watching time slip by. It’s not about jump scares or creaky floorboards, but about loss, memory, and the aching permanence of places once loved. You’ll need patience—it drifts more than drives—but the emotional payoff is worth it. As the credits rolled, I just sat there in silence, processing. Not scary, but deeply affecting. One to feel more than fully understand.

The Hours is a beautifully acted, emotionally weighty film that just about earns its stripes, even if it’s a bit too neat for its own good. The anthology structure lets Daldry peel back the shiny veneer of three different decades, showing how society politely ignores its messier truths. Each woman—writer, housewife, professor—appears to have it all, yet none can honestly speak their mind. It’s striking how little progress is made, even as the world modernises. Most unsettling of all? Julianne Moore getting mansplained by a pre-schooler. It's not perfect, but there’s quiet power here. Proudly grown-up, it feels like the kind of film we don’t get anymore—pre-streamers dictating what we watch through their algorithms.

There’s no denying the beauty here — Raise the Red Lantern is a visual and emotional stunner: precise, claustrophobic, and quietly devastating. Gong Li is magnetic, the use of colour is spellbinding, and Zhang Yimou’s framing turns ritual into warfare.

Unfortunately, I had the misfortune of watching a version (not from Cinema Paradiso I hasten to say) that looked like it was transferred from worn-out Super 8 and subtitled by Google Translate on a bad day.

The film’s power still shone through, but the experience felt like viewing a masterpiece through frosted glass. This demands a proper rewatch. The film deserves it. And so do my eyeballs.

The Hidden feels like GTA had a lovechild with The X-Files—and somehow no one told me it existed. Seriously, how the hell had I not seen this before? Forget that—how had I never even heard of it? We’re talking flamethrowers, stolen Ferraris, body-snatching aliens, and more people getting mowed down than in Death Race 2000. On paper, it’s a standard buddy cop setup, but Kyle MacLachlan’s deadpan weirdo FBI agent elevates it into something far stranger. Fast, chaotic, and gloriously unhinged—this is pure ‘80s cult gold.  

The only thing that could’ve taken it to the next level? John Carpenter behind the camera, laying down a pulsing synth score while the chaos unfolds. The film already feels like it raided his toolkit—creepy alien menace, stoic antihero, apocalyptic vibes—so why not go full Carpenter and seal the deal?

La Femme Nikita is Luc Besson fulfilling his "Pygmalion-with-a-pistol" fetish. It’s slick, stylish, and occasionally brilliant—but let’s not pretend it’s feminist cinema. Nikita’s transformation from junkie to state assassin only “succeeds” once she can shoot a man and apply eyeliner. It’s less about empowerment, more about male fantasy: unruly women as wild things to be dressed up and broken in.

Strip away the gloss, and what’s left is more troubling. Besson flirts with themes of rebirth and control. Still, Nikita never really owns her narrative—she’s sculpted, surveilled, and shaped by others, including the camera. Even her romance feels like an assignment.

Yet it works—just. The pace zips, the set-pieces land, and there’s enough bite to stop it slipping into total style-over-substance. It’s fun, but faintly sour.