Film Reviews by griggs

Birdy is a curious beast. When it’s good, it’s terrific—tender, thoughtful, and surprisingly moving. But when it’s bad… well, it unintentionally flaps into the realm of the pretentious. Parker’s deadly seriousness gives us wistful staring, melodramatic voice-overs, Cage Rage™?, and Modine, starkers, bird-posing on the bed. Much of the humour feels accidental—Cage, in particular, seems adrift. Yet, as the film settles, the bond between the two men grounds it beautifully. It’s touching stuff, just too long. Trim 20 minutes and you’ve got a leaner, stronger film. As it stands, it hovers—but never quite soars.

A cracking slice of post-war noir that swaps fedoras for flatbeds, Thieves' Highway is one of the more distinctive entries in the genre. It's full of grit—both literal and emotional—and has a proper lived-in feel. The rickety truck sequences are pure anxiety fuel, like They Drive by Night on a death wish. Jules Dassin nails the tough lives of working people with empathy and style—no wonder HUAC came sniffing. Their loss. He’s now firmly on my shortlist of favourite directors. It’s tense, atmospheric, and packed with detail—something’s always moving, even when the plot slows. Properly gripping stuff.

The Hunger isn’t your average vampire flick—it’s a moody, seductive fever dream in fishnets and silk. Catherine Deneuve is dangerously divine, Bowie broods like no one else, and Sarandon turns sexual confusion into an art form. The plot? Minimal. The mood? Maximal.

Tony Scott’s debut is all smouldering glances, blood-stained elegance, and slow-motion cigarette lighting. Every frame looks like it’s about to pout and ask for a light. It’s dripping in style—darkwave clubs, high collars, velvet shadows—and yet it’s never just style for style’s sake.

This is a film about desire with a capital D. About the thrill of seduction, the ache of obsession, and what happens when love becomes possession. It’s also about addiction, decay, and the slow, sexy horror of getting precisely what you asked for—forever.

It won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but if you’re into erotic doom, gothic glam, and films that feel like a very slow kiss on the neck before a bite, you’ll swoon.

The Hunger is lusty, louche, and lethally cool. If looks could kill, this would be a mass grave in shoulder pads.

Final Destination: Bloodlines strays from the path of a typical horror film, playing more like a rogue health and safety video. The format’s familiar—a parade of unfortunate souls trying to dodge elaborate, gruesome deaths while Death lurks off-screen with a clipboard.

The prologue hints at promise, with surprising style and clarity. It sets high expectations with a well-executed suspense sequence and a focused narrative. But that promise quickly evaporates, and it’s as if a completely different director took over, resulting in a jarring shift in tone and quality. From there, it’s a whirlwind of chaos. The direction is haphazard, the framing peculiar, and most of the cast seem to have wandered in from entirely different films. Performances are lacklustre—half look glued to cue cards, while the rest are just guessing the tone.

The script spreads jokes evenly, but that only heightens the awkwardness. A few actors cope; others flounder. The end result? A school play with a body count. Editing is all quick cuts and awkward jolts that wreck the pacing. The sound’s no better—clumsy ADR slaps in dialogue like late homework. And although it’s the longest film in the series, it barrels ahead like it’s late for a flight, stuffing in every set piece and punchline with zero breathing room. Most disappointingly, it just isn’t scary. There are a few chuckles—mostly at how absurd things get—but not much else. It’s not a total disaster, but it’s not all that watchable either: a messy, confused entry with a high body count and low stakes.

In the end, Bloodlines isn’t a total disaster—it’s just aggressively mediocre. It’s not dreadful enough to be fun, not good enough to recommend. Just another Final Destination, coasting on franchise fumes and ticking boxes while forgetting why those boxes were scary in the first place. If this is the future of the series, someone needs to call time… before Death does.

Cul-de-Sac is a strange little beast—engrossing, offbeat, and often veering into theatrical overkill. It plays like a showreel for its actors more than an entirely focused film, with Donald Pleasence and Lionel Stander delivering strong, captivating performances in a bizarre, uneven power struggle. Pleasance tiptoes around conflict while Stander stomps through it, chewing every bit of scenery in sight. The film lingers too long, and the tension fizzles as it meanders, but it’s never dull. The isolated setting adds charm, and the whole thing plays out like a deranged French farce filtered through a bleak, windswept lens. Odd, but oddly entertaining.

The Last Boy Scout is a foul-mouthed fever dream of early-‘90s cynicism. It’s a scuzzy, sweaty buddy-action flick that hurls footballs, bullets, and one-liners with gleeful recklessness.

Bruce Willis delivers one of his most gloriously grim performances—chain-smoking, dead-eyed, and barely hanging on. The film is drenched in blood, sleaze, and explosive violence, skewering macho posturing even as it revels in its own bad habits. The plot? Forgettable. It’s just a loose excuse to keep the wisecracks flying and the bodies dropping.

The women? Sidelined symbols or punchlines—victims of the film’s unapologetic misogyny. The men? Washed-up relics clawing at some warped sense of honour with fists and bravado. It’s a brutally honest, stylish, nasty time capsule—full of snappy nastiness, equal parts self-loathing and swagger.

For all its sleaze and swagger, The Last Boy Scout isn’t just revelling in bad behaviour—it’s embalming it. It knows the world it’s portraying is rotten, and rather than fix it, it leans into the decay with a crooked grin and a smoking gun. There’s something oddly compelling in its unrepentant cynicism, like watching masculinity implode in slow motion to the sound of its own punchlines. It may be trash, but it’s knowingly, gloriously iconic trash.

Harvey is a whimsical gem with a slightly boozy charm and a giant invisible rabbit at its heart. James Stewart plays it all so straight, it becomes oddly moving, like he knows something the rest of us don’t. It’s gentle, silly, and quietly profound, wearing its madness like a well-tailored jacket. A film about being kind in a world obsessed with normalcy. Honestly, who wouldn’t want a six-foot-tall pooka as a drinking buddy?

Brother is a curious misfire from Kitano—his first (and last) stab at Hollywood. Transplanting Yakuza stoicism to L.A. should’ve been bold, but it mostly falls flat. It rehashes bits of Sonatine and borrows heavily from slicker ’90s crime flicks, but with none of the spark. The pace drags, the introspection feels forced, and it never quite knows what it wants to be. Still, the unexpected bromance between Kitano and Omar Epps is oddly endearing.

The Raid kicks off like a gritty SWAT procedural—tight, tense, and full of promise. Those first 20 minutes had me hooked: strategic sweeps, creeping dread, a grounded sense of danger.

Then it flips the switch and turns into a martial arts showcase. Beautifully choreographed, yes—but once the realism gives way to relentless hand-to-hand carnage, it lost me a bit. The stakes blur, the tactics vanish, and it becomes all about the beatdowns. Impressive? Absolutely. Exhausting? A bit. It’s brutal, stylish, and undeniably well-made, but I preferred the claustrophobic tension to the flying fists.

What begins as a mission with purpose spirals into chaos, with no glory—just wreckage. It’s thrilling, yes—but behind the shattered bones and slick moves lies a bleak truth: sometimes survival is the only thing left to fight for.

Hail, Caesar! wants to be many things—noir, satire, musical, historical epic—but ends up being none of them. It lurches between tones, never quite deciding what it is. The Coens clearly know their Hollywood history, but the in-jokes are so niche that it sometimes feels like eavesdropping on someone else's nostalgia. The film flits between oddball sketches and a central character who's somehow both central and utterly forgettable.

There are moments of undeniable brilliance—the tap-dancing sailors, Clooney's goofball Roman—but they don't quite add up to a satisfying whole. You keep expecting a grand revelation, and then... the credits. It's not their worst (looking at you, The Ladykillers), but it's easily their laziest. In comparison to other Hollywood-reverence films like Once Upon a Time in Hollywood or Babylon, this one feels like a half-hearted effort.

What stings most is knowing what the Coens are capable of. These are the minds behind Fargo and No Country for Old Men—films that dance between tones with elegance and purpose. Hail, Caesar! feels like a half-remembered dream of those triumphs, a jumbled scrapbook of better ideas that never coalesce. It should have been a love letter to cinema, but instead plays like a hastily written email. Watching such talent tread water, content to riff without reason, is a deep sadness. The film ends, not with a bang, but a shrug—and you're left wondering what could've been if they'd just cared a little more, and weren't so proud of all the insider jokes they had planted in the script.

Black Dynamite is a loving, laugh-out-loud spoof of ‘70s Blaxploitation flicks, nailing everything from the funky soundtrack to the grainy visual style. Michael Jai White is a riot in the lead, and the one-liners come thick and fast. It’s sharp, silly, and clearly made with affection. That said, it does lose steam halfway through—the plot gets tangled in its own nonsense before rallying for a gloriously absurd finale. It's not perfect, but it's a lot of fun.

Few films manage to create an enduring impact with every viewing, but RRR achieves this with remarkable finesse. Watching RRR is unforgettable; a transcendent experience. The sheer scale and energy of the film left me awestruck, every moment magnified to near-mythic proportions.

RRR redefines what spectacle can be—visually stunning, emotionally gripping, and unapologetically bold. Its grandeur, with sweeping landscapes and meticulously choreographed action sequences, sets a new benchmark for cinematic spectacles. The film's boldness and grandeur are truly inspiring, and the juxtaposition of its painterly beauty with raw, visceral violence only deepens its impact. Beneath the dazzling surface lies a story with remarkable depth, anchored by characters whose unwavering convictions and intense struggles transform the film's outrageous set pieces into emotionally charged experiences.

Amidst the chaotic yet mesmerising action scenes, RRR beautifully balances contrasting emotions—humour, joy, and sorrow. This delicate interplay of emotions enriches the viewing experience, making it more than just a visual spectacle. Moments of laughter seamlessly intertwine with heart-wrenching scenes, creating a tapestry of resonating emotions that keep you engaged and emotionally invested.

RRR isn't just a film; it's an event, a celebration of what cinema can achieve when it dares to dream big.

Motel Destino is a sweaty, neon-drenched thriller soaked in sex, regret, and dodgy life choices. It’s a bit soap opera, a bit noir, and all heat. The pink filters, alongside deep purples and dirty yellows, give it a humid, sleazy vibe that absolutely works. While a bit hazy at times, the plot is engaging and keeps you hooked. I was particularly drawn in by the mood, the motel’s seedy personality, and the tangled mess of lust and betrayal. It’s stylish, messy, and oddly hypnotic. Not quite top-tier stuff, but I really enjoyed it. Feels like a fever dream with a broken air conditioner—and I mean that as a compliment.

This is Malick at his most abstract. The whole film feels like a perfume advert stretched into a feature. We follow Rick (Christian Bale), a screenwriter wandering through Los Angeles, surrounded by wealth, women, and parties, but emotionally empty. He’s not really living; just drifting, lost in memories, relationships, and voiceovers. The story doesn’t follow a linear plot. Instead, it’s made up of scattered moments, some beautiful, some baffling, like flipping through someone else’s dream journal and occasionally finding something that resonates.

The film is structured like a tarot reading, with each chapter and woman representing a different stage in Rick’s emotional and spiritual decline. It’s slow, repetitive, and often vague. Still, there’s something oddly mesmerising about it, especially if you’re willing to let it wash over you.

Interestingly, Malick didn’t direct a single film between Days of Heaven (1978) and The Thin Red Line (1998). At times, Knight of Cups feels like his way of processing that 20-year silence. Rick could easily be Malick himself: creatively blocked, spiritually lost, and trying to figure out what it all means. It’s not his strongest work, but it’s a fascinating look at someone searching for meaning in a world built on illusion.

In the end, Knight of Cups isn’t about Rick’s life so much as his inner landscape: a drifting, disconnected world of memories, regrets, and unanswered questions. It won’t work for everyone; it’s slow, elusive, and of a more emotional tone than a traditional film. But if you’re willing to meet it on its own terms, there’s something quietly powerful beneath the surface. Even in all the chaos and beauty, the search for meaning never stops.

Daybreak is a slow, smoky descent into regret. I struggled with it at first, but once I understood the structure and its aim, it started to click. Gabin still has that magnetic presence, but he’s more broken and bottled up here. He’s trapped in a room, emotionally and literally cornered, replaying how it all went wrong. It’s slower, more confined than Port of Shadows or Pépé le Moko, and less instantly gripping, but there’s a bleak beauty. The apartment feels like a tomb, the flashbacks like an ambush. The past creeps in like smoke through the cracks, and when morning finally comes, it’s not hope that arrives. It’s the inevitable.