Film Reviews by griggs

Monos is strange and striking—part war film, part fever dream. Set in the Andes and the jungle, it follows a group of child soldiers guarding hostage as their grip on reality slips. The heat and sweat practically radiate off the screen. Skin is slick with grime, clothes cling with humidity, and every encounter teeters on the edge of chaos.

The setup recalls Lord of the Flies, but with the surreal dread of Apocalypse Now. Their mission is deliberately vague. Orders come via radio form a commander known only as "The Messenger," but there's not ideology—just rules and punishments. The absence of purpose makes the film feel timeless and unmoored, like war stripped to its barest instincts. Hierarchies form quickly, with toxic masculinity and dominance games festering in the absence of adult control. A tangled undercurrent of sexual awkakening—first kisses, possessiveness, brief intamcy—intertwines with fear and the threat of violence.

The landscape feels alive. The mountains are vast and indifference the jungle lush but menacing. Nature becomes both sanctuary and predator, overwhelming the group as they drift further from civilisation.

Even the infamous pig's head make and appearance—stripped of symbolism, just another grotesque detail in a world where meaning has collapsed. It’s not just a breakdown of command—it’s a breakdown of meaning. These kids aren’t fighting for anything. They’re caught in a cycle of violence—passed down, repeated, and barely understood.

It’s not a straightforward watch, and it doesn’t offer easy answers—but it pulses with atmosphere, unease, and strange beauty. A visceral howl from the heart of chaos.

Bad Influence was an early entry in what became one of the decade’s defining genres: the glossy psychological thriller. James Spader plays the uptight everyman; Rob Lowe, the charming sociopath who wrecks his life—think Strangers on a Train in a Hugo Boss suit. The setup shows promise, but it never quite kicks into gear. The thrills are tepid, the danger cosmetic, and by the time it tries to get nasty, you've already clocked the formula.

What makes Bad Influence more intriguing is its place in the early-’90s cultural drift. This was the dawn of a new kind of anxiety—where the real threat wasn’t lurking in shadows, but smiling at you across the boardroom. It was the age of postmodern genre games—filmmakers tore up the rules and turned inward. Therapy culture was booming, the millennium was looming, and everyone seemed obsessed with the rot beneath the surface. Bad Influence picked at that idea, but others dug deeper. The Silence of the Lambs, Basic Instinct, Seven—these films didn’t just explore the psyche’s dark corners; they invited you in. They bent perception, twisted morality, and gave us narrators we couldn’t trust. By contrast, Bad Influence only flirts with menace. It gestures at danger but never commits. A dress rehearsal for a decade of sharper, smarter, and far more savage thrillers.

I have BBC2’s Moviedrome to thank for introducing me to Electra Glide in Blue, which aired on the series in 1988—and that’s precisely what this is, a cult film through and through. It’s vastly underappreciated, a gripping tale of a good-guy cop learning the hard way. The cinematography is stunning, especially considering the minuscule budget, capturing the Arizona highways with a striking sense of isolation. The performances are excellent, packed with familiar faces from Westerns and noir. It’s a proper New Hollywood film—raw, personal, and unafraid to challenge expectations. Not perfect, but fascinating, and well worth a look for those who love overlooked gems.

Peter Fonda’s The Hired Hand is a dreamy, melancholic take on the West, shaped by the countercultural mood of its time. Fresh off Easy Rider, Fonda trades highways for open plains, crafting an anti-Western that dismantles the genre’s myths. With drifting, world-weary characters, a slow-burn pace, and Vilmos Zsigmond’s hazy cinematography, the film exerts a quiet, inevitable pull. It’s a story of regret, belonging, and the weight of past choices, more a hippie daydream than a classic Western. Its meditative style won’t be for everyone. Still, its poetic sadness persists, making it a fascinating, if distant, appraisal on the Western genre.

Nicholas Ray, renowned for his celebrated Film Noirs In A Lonely Place and They Live by Night, took a captivating detour into the Western genre with Johnny Guitar. This film, at first glance, may seem like a typical Western, but upon closer inspection, it reveals all the hallmarks of a Film Noir—morally ambiguous characters, sharp dialogue, and simmering tension. If you strip away the dusty saloons and frontier landscapes, you might easily mistake it for one of Ray’s shadowy urban dramas. This unique blend of genres is what makes Johnny Guitar a must-see for any film enthusiast.

The title is misleading. Johnny Guitar, played by Sterling Hayden, is a supporting figure at best, strumming through the film while the real fireworks happen between Joan Crawford’s Vienna and Mercedes McCambridge’s Emma Small. Both women dominate the story, and their performances are full of venom and defiance. Yet, their contributions have long been sidelined by the title itself. Why call it Johnny Guitar when Vienna practically carries the entire film on her shoulders? It’s a curious choice that arguably erases the centrality of its female leads.

But what a film it is. This isn’t your standard Western shoot-’em-up. Ray boldly plays with the genre’s conventions, crafting something deeply psychological and subversive. Its themes of power, gender, and loyalty feel decades ahead of their time. You’d be hard-pressed to find another Western that bends the genre this much until the revisionist takes of the 1970s. This subversion of Western genre conventions is what makes Johnny Guitar a film that stands out and intrigues any film enthusiast.

Johnny Guitar stands out not just as a Western but as an essential film from the 1950s that refuses to conform, much like its central character, Vienna. It’s bold, operatic, and unmistakably Ray. For anyone who thinks Westerns are all the same, this is the film to prove them wrong. Its refusal to conform to the typical Western narrative is what makes Johnny Guitar a film that inspires and opens up new possibilities for the Western genre.

Being British, it's easy to forget just how much Watergate shook the American psyche—and still does. Alan J. Pakula's The Parallax View made just before All the President's Men, is soaked in paranoia, political assassinations, and shadowy organisations pulling the strings. Released the same year as Francis Ford Coppola's The Conversation, it's part of that '70s wave of films obsessed with surveillance and conspiracy. Some of its political speeches feel like they could've been written today and, therefore, feel eerily fresh. However, it drags in places, and not everything lands, but as a paranoid thriller, it keeps you hooked just enough.

A luscious Gothic hairball–visually stunning but strangled by a script so bad it’s scary and dubbing so dreadful it’s the real horror show. A gorgeous nightmare of style over substance, The Long Hair of Death is a beautifully flawed mess tangled in its own melodramatic absurdity.

Francis Ford Coppola's One from the Heart is a dazzling yet flawed spectacle—a neon-drenched fever dream of romance that feels meticulously crafted yet strangely alienating. The production design is staggering, transforming Las Vegas into an artificial wonderland of colour and illusion. At the same time, Tom Waits and Crystal Gayle's melancholic soundtrack lends the film an evocative, aching beauty. Yet, beneath the visual and musical splendour, its emotions remain heightened but distant.  

What truly stings, though, is the nagging sense that Julian Temple saw this and thought, "If Coppola can make a neon-lit musical, so can I!"—with disastrous consequences for Absolute Beginners.

Jonathan Demme’s Something Wild is a blast–at least for a good chunk of its runtime. It kicks off with a quirky, rebellious energy that feels totally unpredictable, like jumping in a stranger’s car without knowing where you’ll end up. The soundtrack is incredible, full of jangly rock and new wave that keeps the momentum going and perfectly matches the film’s restless spirit. The production design is just as fun, bursting with bright colours, roadside Americana, and offbeat characters that make the world feel alive and full of surprises.

Melanie Griffith starts out as a total wildcard–commanding, mysterious, dressed in black with a matching wig, dragging Jeff Daniels into chaos. But disappointingly, the film tames her. Suddenly, she’s demure in white, her hair bleached, and instead of leading the adventure, she’s waiting to be rescued. As the film loses its initial spark, it starts to drift. Then Ray Liotta storms in like a lightning bolt, injecting the film with real danger and excitement. His raw intensity pulls everything back on track, making the final act a wild, gripping ride. A flawed but seriously fun film.

The Prowler is a gripping and deeply unsettling noir that takes a sharp look at corruption and abuse of power. Its exploration of these themes is often uncomfortable to watch, with its casual victim-blaming and unsettling moral decay, yet it moves along with the ease of a more conventional thriller. The film’s use of sound is particularly striking—one key character is mainly heard rather than seen, and his voice plays a crucial role in the story, adding an eerie, almost disembodied presence. Most of the film is made up of dialogue scenes between the two leads, which might explain its quick production, but that doesn’t make it feel any less accomplished. It all builds to a stunning climax in a desolate ghost town, a brilliantly staged and visually haunting ending.

Early on, I feared Rumble Fish might favour style over substance, especially given Matt Dillon’s wooden performance. Instead, it unfolds as a surprisingly thoughtful exploration on youth culture, gang life, belonging, and the toxic side of teenage masculinity. Coppola’s experimental choices–especially the striking black-and-white cinematography–give the film a dreamlike quality, elevating it beyond a standard coming-of-age story. Dillon’s stiffness risks undermining the film, but Mickey Rourke’s quiet magnetism as his older brother keeps it grounded. Yet, for all its ambition, the film’s visual style and narrative never fully coalesce, leaving it more intriguing than emotionally resonant. A flawed yet fascinating film, defined by its visual boldness and Coppola’s willingness to take risks.

Fat City is one of those quiet stunners that sneaks up on you. Set in the sun-blasted streets of Stockton, California, it follows small-time boxers drifting between hope and resignation. Don’t eXpect a typical sports film—there's barely any boxing. The real punches are emotional, landing during conversations in diners, changing rooms, and half-lit bars. It's about failure, dignity, and the weight of failed dreams.

John Huston, who boxed as a young man, brings a bruised tenderness to the story. Know for films like The Maltese Falcon and The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, he always had an eye for characters on the losing side of life. That compassion shows here, especially in how the film treats its characters—with quiet empathy rather than judgement.

Susan Tyrell, raw and unforgettable, and a young, effortless Jeff Bridges complete the cast alongside Stacy Kerch, superb as as the washed-up fighter clawing for meaning in a world that's long since moved on.

Blissfully Yours is a languid, quietly daring film that drifts between realism and reverie. Apichatpong Weerasethakul structures it in two acts: the first grounded in the sterile routines of marginal life, the second slipping into a dreamlike jungle interlude where time and logic begin to dissolve. The appearance of the title card almost halfway through marks a shift—not just in tone, but in purpose.

The story is minimal: a Burmese migrant, his Thai girlfriend, and an older woman each seeking escape from their own constraints. The plot takes a back seat to mood and sensation. Sunlight on skin, the buzz of insects, a casual touch—these become the film’s true narrative beats. Themes of exile, identity, and impermanence simmer beneath the still surface, as Apichatpong reflects on borders—literal and emotional.

This is a film about fleeting freedoms: of the body, of movement, of joy. It doesn’t offer answers—just space to feel, and maybe drift a little yourself.

Seconds isn’t just my favourite film—it’s the one that rewired my brain, made me understand just what is possible to convey on screen. As the third part of John Frankenheimer’s loose paranoia triology, Seconds dials down the politics and drills deep into personal dread: it’s about identity, regret, and the terrifying lure of second chances.

James Wong Howe’s cinematography is a masterclass in unease—skewed angles, fisheye lenses, and stark contrasts that make even the calmest moments feel unnervingly off. Rock Hudson, often dismissed as lightweight, is magnetic here—fragile, haunted, and utterly convincing.

At the time of its release, some critics claimed the film turned conventional once Hudson appears on screen. That misses the point entirely. This isn’t wish fulfilment—it's a deeply unnerving riff on Faust, where dreams curdle and rebirth comes at a cost. It's as much Kafka as it is sci-fi.

From the infamous grape-crushing bacchanal to that chilling final shot, Seconds is a waking nightmare—and a brutal reminder that escape isn't always freedom.

Cockfighter is southern gothic at its dustiest—slow, strange, and steeped in a kind of faded honour. Monte Hellman drops us deep into backwoods America, where silence, pride, and obsession rule. It’s a quiet film, but it gets under your skin.

Warren Oates is brilliant as Frank Mansfield, a man who’s taken a vow not to speak until he wins back his title on the cockfighting circuit. What’s especially odd—though kind of perfect—is that Harry Dean Stanton, usually the quiet one, does most of the talking instead.

The film doesn’t rush or explain. It just unfolds, hot and heavy with tension, like a long summer day with no breeze. The cockfighting scenes are hard to watch, but they’re part of a world Hellman captures with eerie calm. It won’t be for everyone, but if you like your stories raw and stripped back, this one sticks with you.