Film Reviews by griggs

I'm Still Here opens up to scenes we are familiar with, hundreds of young people enjoying Copacabana beach, the sun, the sand, the sea and the surf, before a cutaway to the grim darkness of a road tunnel where the Brazilian dream is shattered, soldiers flexing their muscles at a roadblock; stopping and searching every car with ruthless efficiency and venom, forcing everyone up against the wall at gunpoint.

What unfolds is a powerful and deeply personal film about the military dictatorship in Brazil at its height in the early 1970s, when state paranoia was at its most extreme. It follows the Paiva family, Rubens, Eunice, and their five children, whose lives are shattered when Rubens, a former congressman, is taken in for questioning and never returns. Fernanda Torres delivers a superb performance as Eunice, carrying the emotional weight of the film with quiet resilience and raw vulnerability. Her portrayal ensures the story remains profoundly affecting, even when the movie meanders, creating a strong emotional connection with the audience. The film's powerful portrayal of family tragedy will resonate with viewers, evoking a strong sense of empathy and emotional connection. This emotional impact will keep the audience connected to the film's narrative and characters.

Director Walter Salles, a childhood friend of the Paiva family, clearly brings a personal connection to the material. His intimate knowledge of the family's story and the impact of the dictatorship on their lives is evident in the film. However, his familiarity with the story sometimes works against the film. Various subplots, such as a stray dog and a winter coat, feel unnecessary, adding little depth but extending the runtime. As the film jumped through several codas towards the present day, some of my fellow audience members began to groan and fidget, realising that the end was still not in sight. Compared to The Seed of the Sacred Fig, a fellow Best International Feature Film Oscar nominee, which is 40 minutes longer yet far more taut, with the additional run time feeling absolutely essential, this film feels overlong. It is often said that art is not what you put in but what you leave out. Better editing could have vastly improved this film.

Despite its flaws, I'm Still Here manages to keep the focus on the tragedy at its core. It is a stark reminder that the world we live in today, 50 years later, is not all that different. The film's exploration of power dynamics and the potential for history to repeat itself, with dictators and would-be dictators worldwide flexing their muscles, is gripping and intellectually stimulating. The film's relevance to the current political climate and its exploration of history's potential to repeat itself will keep the audience engaged and intellectually stimulated. However, a more restrained approach could have made it even more potent. Nevertheless, it remains an essential and affecting film I enjoyed and recommend, particularly for those concerned about the current political climate with one eye on recent history.

I’ll admit, I was hesitant going in—how could a 60-year-old pass as a Formula 1 driver? Yet it works. F1: The Movie is proper summer-blockbuster fare: sleek, entertaining, and surprisingly heartfelt. Directed by Joseph Kosinski (Top Gun: Maverick), it brings some of that aerial flair to the track with roaring engines, punchy montages, and big-screen spectacle. It’s a classic Bruckheimer production: polished, predictable, but never dull. Structurally, it shares DNA with Ted Lasso—underdog grit, team chemistry, personal redemption. No major twists, and that’s fine. Hans Zimmer’s score does precisely what you expect, punctuating every hairpin turn and emotional beat with turbocharged gravitas. The cast is solid, and while the plot doesn’t break new ground, the film knows exactly what it is and delivers with confidence. It’s great fun, full throttle, even if it isn’t one for the ages.

No Man’s Land begins with real promise—a tense, claustrophobic setup in which two soldiers from opposing sides find themselves trapped between the lines, forced to confront not just each other, but the absurdity of war itself. Their uneasy alliance and pointed exchanges suggest a thoughtful chamber piece. But the arrival of the media and military top brass shifts the tone, undercutting the film’s quiet power with heavy-handed farce. By the time it circles back to a sombre conclusion, the weight of the message has already been dulled. It’s a well intentioned film that ultimately loses its footing under the weight of its satire.

Annihilation just wasn’t my bag. That’s probably on me—it's well-directed, well-acted, and clearly made with care. But something about it kept me at arms length. I found myself struggling in much the same way I did with Tarkovsky's Stalker: intrigued, then lost, and then reaching for my phone. Five minutes in, I had to double-check it wasn't a remake. I admire what it's going for, but for whatever wavelength it's on, I just couldn't tune in.

The Last Wave unsettled me with its quiet persistence. It begins as a tidy crime film, before drifting into an existential thriller pitching lawyer David Burton into Dreamtime and the Aboriginal cosmos.

The pacing is unhurried, yet jagged edits fracture time: every dripping tap or splash of water (of which there are plenty), feels like a coded warning, stretching beyond the confines of the film. Peter Weir explores the cultural collision; he never lectures. Modern reason buckles under the ancestral rhythms. Burton’s sceptical mind splinters under the apocalyptic visions. By the end, it certainly had me rattled too. The iconic finale—a wave that may either be real or revelatory—signals rupture, not ruin.

The film unfortunately overreaches in places, but the atmosphere clings to you. It fascinates as well as frustrates. Never dull, but always slightly out of reach.

I’m not usually a Peckinpah fan, but Junior Bonner might be the exception. It’s a surprisingly tender film about rodeo men out of step with the world, quietly holding onto what’s left rather than going out in a blaze. It feels more wistful than wild—and is all the better for it. Ida Lupino is especially brilliant, but the whole cast shines. Even McQueen reins it in, swapping swagger for something softer and more human.

Fincher’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo bites like a Swedish winter. The plot unfurls at a steady clip, even if a few indulgent tangents frost the edges. Rooney Mara makes Lisbeth a coiled spring—fierce, wounded, unreadable. Daniel Craig dials down the Bond swagger and lets the mystery lead. Fincher bathes every corridor in glassy light and dread, building tension you can feel in your teeth. The resolution veers towards pulp, but the journey is razor-sharp. Trim thirty minutes and it might really sing, but as it stands, it’s gripping, stylish, and cold to the core.

Mukhsin is the kind of coming-of-age film that sneaks up on you. It floats through sun-drenched Malaysian afternoons—kids on creaky bikes, parents teasing in the kitchen, cultural norms quietly bent while a neighbour gossips from across the road. The pace is cosy—sometimes too cosy—but every digression plants a seed that later blooms.

Yasmin Ahmad’s camera finds poetry in the ordinary: shared jokes, bursts of laughter, and moments that slip by unnoticed in louder films. Her touch is light, but the themes run deep—gender, conformity, tenderness, and what it means to grow up different. The tone has none of Hollywood’s manic urgency; there’s stillness here, and space to breathe.

What makes the film sing is the friendship at its heart. Orked and Mukhsin aren’t sweethearts—they’re kids, tiptoeing along the fuzzy edge between mateship and something more. They swap jokes, trade secrets, and steal glances when adults aren’t looking. He’s allowed softness. She’s allowed cheek. Together, they sketch a kind of emotional blueprint—less about romance, more about trust.

Orked’s family are outsiders, emotionally open and deeply connected. You’d swear they wandered in off the street, fully formed. That warmth makes Mukhsin’s alienation cut deeper. He’s the new boy in a place that doesn’t know how to handle him—and Yasmin captures that with heartbreaking clarity.

Ahmad explores the gap between public performance and private truth. In this world, women defer in public but rule in private. Orked’s household flips the script: her parents flirt, argue, and love each other out loud. The mother isn’t submissive; the father isn’t aloof. There’s real equality—radical, not because it’s shouted, but because it’s shown.

The beauty of Mukhsin lies in its contrasts. It feels gentle, safe—but life creeps in. Childhood isn’t a bubble, and kindness isn’t armour. Even in the sunniest villages, shame and compromise live just under the surface. Ahmad lets that tension simmer, then gently, devastatingly, breaks the spell.

The final reveal—pulling back to show the crew—isn’t a gimmick. It’s a gesture of love. She’s saying: this is a memory, a truth wrapped in fiction. These people existed. So did this love. Mukhsin becomes more than a coming-of-age film—it’s a remembrance. An embrace. A goodbye.

Richard Burton struts through 1971 London as mobster Vic Dakin, but the menace fades fast, swallowed by the beige. Dakin’s queer relationship with his younger lover, played by a brooding Ian McShane, hints at something darker—part protection racket, part S&M psychodrama—but it’s never fully explored. The real fun is spotting sitcom stalwarts—Tony Selby, Colin Welland, and a parade of ‘oh-it’s-him’ faces from 70s and 80s telly—before they vanish into the background.

With Ian le Frenais and Dick Clement at the typewriter, its no surprise that the plot plays like an overlong episode of The Sweeney, Minder, or The Professionals: punch-ups, punchlines, and predictable payoffs. It’s a far cry from the tension of Get Carter or the danger of Performance. As vintage grit—with Woodbines, Ford Cortinas and flares—it’s an engaging fossil. As cinema, it’s merely adequate—best filed under ‘curio’ and left to gather dust.

I arrived knowing almost nothing about ice hockey and left just as unsure. What plays out though feels more like a candid field-study than a feel-good sports caper. Director George Roy Hill strips away polish: punch-ups crash into changing room grumbles, and the battered team’s fortunes mirror a mill town heading towards collapse. The thuggish humour lands side by side with streaks of kitchen-sink despair, giving the film its odd texture—one minute pratfalls, the next blue-collar rage.

Amid the racket, the seventies soundtrack cuts through the din with real bite, and Paul Newman anchors the madness with a wonderfully perplexed turn. Even so I never quite warmed to the film. A constant barrage of homophobic and sexist slurs—unapologetic and unredeemed—kept dragging me out of the fun. Age isn't and alibi. In the end, the raw energy intrigues, but the crudity overshadows the charm.

Ironweed sets its story in 1938 Albany, where frost-bitten streets and soot-streaked buildings give the film a strong sense of place. The production design is detailed and convincing, grounding the characters in a world of hardship.

Jack Nicholson reins in his usual intensity, letting small gestures hint at deeper regret. Meryl Streep offers a restrained, sympathetic turn. Even the supporting roles feel well observed.

But the story unfolds in stiff, episodic beats. Scenes arrive with clear intent but little rhythm, often ending before they fully develop. Francis’s hallucinations and Helen’s later absence feel less like emotional turns than structural decisions.

The film has craft and care behind it—strong performances, evocative settings, and a sincere tone. But its formal structure holds the drama at a distance. It’s a thoughtful work, but one that engages the head more than the heart.

The Shop on Main Street is a Slovak film front he Czech-Slovak New Wave that shows how catastrophe starts with small choices. In 1942, a quiet carpenter becomes the state-appointed “Aryan controller” of a button shop owned by an elderly Jewish widow. He tries to do right; the system presses him to do wrong.

Ida Kaminska brings the widow to life with warmth and wary dignity, and the camera lingers on her every flicker of doubt. Directors Ján Kadár and Elmar Klos keep the style plain: steady shots, dry humour, the odd surreal touch. No graphic shocks—just mounting moral pressure. The ending lands like a dropped stone and keeps echoing.

Along Came Love is a frank, handsomely acted melodrama about two people tethered to secrets they barely admit, even to themselves. Shame, guilt, and misplaced desire simmer beneath a marriage built on real affection but weighed down by repression. It’s emotionally direct and far more explicit than its 15 rating lets on. I regret watching the trailer—it spoiled too much—but even so, I stayed engaged and was, at times, genuinely moved.

Purple Noon is a slow-burn thriller disguised as a holiday. Shot in Rome, Naples, and on the sun-bleached islands of Ischia and Procida, it follows Alain Delon’s Tom Ripley as he slips into a life of luxury he clearly fancies wearing full-time. At first he’s just a broke hanger-on; soon the charm hardens into calculation.

René Clément keeps the surface calm while tension ripples beneath. Henri Decaë’s camera captures blue seas, sharp suits, and stylish interiors with a clarity that masks the danger. Delon is the draw—watchful, unreadable—and Maurice Ronet’s carefree playboy only spots the threat when it’s too late.

A couple of languid stretches hold it back from perfection, but compared to the glossier remakes, this one remains cooler, leaner, and far more unsettling. If Ripley ever needed a passport photo, this would be it.

I was convinced I’d seen Nobody while sweating through COVID on the sofa—though it might’ve just been the trailer and a fever dream. Lockdown warped time, and before I used Letterboxd, memory was more folklore than fact.

Watching it properly now, it’s a sharp, satisfying action film. What makes it click is Bob Odenkirk: a believable everyman pushed too far. Cast a typical action star, and it’d just be a daft revenge film. It’s lean, stylish, and never overstays its welcome. Roll on Nobody 2—this time, I’ll log it.