Film Reviews by griggs

Four Mothers wants to be heartfelt, but it doesn’t know how. The actors are clearly game to dig into something tangible, to give it something more—especially the excellent Fionnula Flanagan, who does more without dialogue than most do with reams of lines—but the script keeps undercutting them. Every moment of sincerity gets chased off by a quip directly out of a sitcom. It can’t decide if it’s a light comedy or a quiet tragedy, so it ends up being neither. The tonal whiplash extends to the visuals too, with jumpy editing and awkward handheld shots doing little to help. It’s not bad, in fact it’s nice, but just frustratingly bland.

Long Day’s Journey into Night is a slow, dreamy film that feels more like a memory than a story. It follows Luo Hongwu as he returns to his hometown, looking for a woman from his past. But the film isn’t about finding her—it’s about how lost he feels, and how memory can shift and blur over time.

The plot is hard to follow on purpose. Places change, people repeat, and objects like a book or a key seem to mean more than they should. The second half features a stunning one-hour single take that feels like drifting through a dream. It’s beautiful, strange, and a bit too long.

This isn’t a film for everyone. It doesn’t give clear answers, and it’s easy to get frustrated. But if you’re willing to go with the flow, there’s something quite moving underneath it all—a man trying to hold onto love, memory, and who he used to be.

Hidden is a masterclass in quiet tension. Haneke turns a simple premise—a family receiving anonymous surveillance tapes—into a slow-burning exploration of guilt, denial, and collective memory. The mystery is less about who’s watching than what the characters refuse to see. Daniel Auteuil is excellent as a man unravelling without ever raising his voice. The static camera work is deceptively simple, pulling you in and daring you to miss something. It’s unsettling in the best way—unanswered questions linger, not as plot holes, but as the point. The past haunts quietly, and Haneke makes sure you feel it.

Ballerina has the bones of something stylish, but the final product feels like it’s been patched together—and to be fair, it was. You can see the reshoots and delays in the seams. Ana de Armas gives it her all and carries the thing with poise, but the action’s mostly samey, and Gabriel Byrne’s accent is anyone’s guess. Keanu and Anjelica Huston are in and out far too quickly. It’s watchable, just not particularly memorable.

Memories of Underdevelopment is less a story than a slow-motion crisis of consciousness. We follow the protagonist Sergio, who is floating through Havana in a haze of culture, alienation, boredom, and despair, paralysed by his uselessness, a ghost of the old bourgeoisie. He’s stuck mourning European culture and sneering at the so-called underdeveloped masses. It’s a silently damning critique of class, complacency, and the cultural vacuum left behind when ideology becomes lifestyle.

 The form matches the content—fragmented, discursive, drenched in despair. Despite its cerebral tone, Memories of Underdevelopment is never visually dry. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea’s direction is razor-sharp, blending documentary footage, still photography, and inner monologue into something intimate and historical. The cinematography captures Havana in flux—elegant old façades crumbling under the weight of change. Long takes that allow moments to breathe and disintegrate. Sergio Corrieri holds the centre with a quietly haunted performance, all internalised arrogance and emotional drift, while the supporting cast feel intentionally subdued—more like symbols than characters, reflecting Sergio’s inability to connect with the world around him. Its emotional distance is part of the design—deliberate, alienating, and quietly devastating.

You get the sense Sergio’s not just watching a country change—he’s watching his own irrelevance set in, like mildew on marble. As a portrait of class inertia and cultural decay, it’s quietly scathing of those like Sergio, too cultured to join in, too comfortable to let go, and too cowardly to change. It’s Sergio who is underdeveloped, not the masses. He didn’t become stunted because of the revolution—he was hollow all along, and now there’s nothing left to hide it.

Jurassic World: Rebirth is a film that tries to recapture the magic but mostly ends up chasing its own tail. The dinos look okay, but there is no wow factor, as we’ve seen it all before. There are a couple of fun set pieces, but the plot’s recycled, and the new characters feel like action figures with dialogue. That said, it’s genuinely refreshing to see a Hispanic family take centre stage in today’s climate and become the heroes—even if, at times, they (and their adoptee) come off a bit gimmicky.

There’s the usual corporate greed subplot, the inevitable betrayal, and, of course, someone shouting “run!” a lot. It’s not terrible—just uninspired. If you’re in it for the roars and chases, you’ll be mildly entertained. Just don’t expect a resurrection of wonder

Portrait of Jennie is a dreamy, old-school romantic fantasy that leans heavily into the mystical, with no real concern for how any of it might actually work. Jennifer Jones flits in and out like a ghost with a mission, full of strange energy, while Joseph Cotten plays it straight to anchor things. The visuals are lovely, and the supporting cast adds real charm, but it’s more mood than substance—beautiful to look at but oddly hollow.

There’s no denying Dressed to Kill is a visual feast—sumptuous, slow-mo dream sequences, that lush Pino Donaggio score, and De Palma’s usual bag of tricks all dialled up to 11. But underneath the surface, it’s a mess. The plot’s ridiculous, the dialogue’s ropey, and it leans hard on the tired and offensive transgender killer trope that feels even grimmer now than it probably did then. De Palma’s clearly revelling in his own fixations—this is Hitchcock through a dirty mirror—but at times it feels less like homage and more like a pervy art project. A stylish, problematic oddity that’s hard to love guilt-free.

I’m not usually sold on Sean Connery, but The Anderson Tapes might be his most convincing turn that I’ve seen. He plays a recently released crook plotting an ambitious heist on a swanky Upper East Side apartment block—what he doesn’t realise is that the whole place is locked down tighter than his wig. Every conversation, every movement, someone’s listening. It’s Sidney Lumet doing paranoia before it was fashionable—released just months after Nixon started taping himself into infamy.

The film’s structure is a nice change of pace—cutting between the build-up and the aftermath of the heist without tipping its hand too early. Connery’s gang sport masks lifted straight from Kansas City Confidential, giving it a nice nod to film noir. And Quincy Jones’ score? Full of electronic beeps, warbles, and jazzy chaos—it shouldn't work, but it does. The film may not be top-tier Lumet, but it is undeniably stylish, clever, and oddly playful for a movie of its genre.

The Milk of Sorrow takes its time–and then some. Set in post-conflict Peru, it’s all about inherited trauma, memory, and the stuff we carry whether we want to or not. The metaphors are everywhere–some land straight away, others feel like a puzzle you’re not sure you want to solve. It’s slow, sometimes frustratingly so, but there is also beauty in the way it’s shot and in the small rituals it lingers on. Magaly Solier gives a performance that’s quiet but hard to ignore. It doesn’t build to anything big, but the weight of it still hangs around.

Play Misty for Me is a very, very good directorial debut from Clint Eastwood—sharp, stylish, and impressively restrained. You can spot the fingerprints of his mentors throughout: Siegel's clean, unfussy editing and Leone's eye for a striking frame. But Eastwood keeps things more grounded and intimate. The real draw, though, is Jessica Walter. She's electric—vulnerable, seductive, terrifying—and the whole film hinges on her.

Eastwood's radio DJ mostly reacts to the chaos she brings, but it fits the material. The tension builds steadily, with a Roberta Flack montage offering a deceptively tranquil breather before things kick off again.

While it taps into the familiar "unstable woman" trope—this was doing the whole Fatal Attraction thing before it had a name—it does so with more atmosphere than cheap thrills. There's a psychological edge here that elevates it.

It's not quite a great film, but it's a tight, creepy, and well-crafted thriller. A rock-solid start to Eastwood's directing career—and a reminder of just how good Jessica Walter was.

Out of My Hand is one of those films that stays with you—not because it's flashy or loud, but because it feels lived-in. The first half, set in Liberia, is gripping stuff. Cisco, our lead, is a rubber plantation worker turned organiser, and you really feel his presence—he's got a voice, a cause, and you're right there with him. Once he moves to New York, though, things shift. He fades into the background, and the film becomes quieter and more introspective as ghosts from his past emerge. The title 'Out of My Hand' reflects Cisco's journey from a position of control in Liberia to a more vulnerable state in New York. In Liberia, he was a big fish in a small pond, but in New York, he is the smallest of fish in an ocean surrounded by sharks.

I couldn't shake the feeling something was missing. That might be due to my limited knowledge of Liberian history, which the film references without elaborating. How different it would've been with a Liberian director at the helm? Still, the mood, the performance, and the honesty of it all carry real weight.

Out of My Hand may not be flawless, but it is undeniably heartfelt. Its quiet power lies in its ability to evoke genuine emotions and connect with its audience on a deeper level.

The Marching Band is a gentle, low-stakes comedy about two brothers from opposite ends of the social spectrum who bond over a shared love of music. One’s all polish and precision; the other’s scrappy but spirited. They’re playing different tunes, but the passion’s the same. The film doesn’t do anything radical but hits the right notes with sincerity and charm. Pierre Lottin and Benjamin Lavernhe have great comic chemistry—awkward, antagonistic, and oddly touching. It’s pretty predictable and a bit too neat at times, but still easy to enjoy. You won’t be humming it for days, but it’s a pleasant enough tune while it lasts.

Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye has its moments—mostly when Cagney’s doing his thing: snarling, scheming, and chewing the scenery like it owes him money. It kicks off with a bang (literally), but the plot soon veers into daft territory, and by the end it’s anyone’s guess what’s actually going on. Still, there’s a certain pulp charm to it all. Gordon Douglas keeps things lively, if not entirely coherent. It’s no White Heat—more like its scrappier, sloppier cousin. Watchable enough if you’re in the mood for a crime flick with a bit of swagger and not much sense.

I wasn’t quite sure what I expected—probably something sexier, more in line with the title and Schrader’s usual edge—but American Gigolo turned out to be something far more interesting. It’s less about erotic thrills and more about style, psychology, and quiet desperation. Gere, all charm and expensive suits, is framed almost like a female sex worker in a classic melodrama—glamorous, transactional, and hollow. But here, no one’s coming to rescue him. He’s a man who fixes other people’s problems but can’t face his own, spiralling into paranoia and self-destruction.

There’s a flicker of The Conversation in how the tension creeps in—subtle, internal, and unnerving—culminating in scenes where Gere tears his flat and car apart, searching for something solid in a world slipping away.

One unexpected moment that felt like a little gift just for me: Gere confronting a man outside a cinema plastered with advertising for The Warriors. A small, throwaway detail—no doubt studio-mandated—but as a fan of the cult classic, it still felt special. And then there’s Moroder’s icy rework of Blondie’s Call Me, pulsing through the film like a glossy, detached lullaby for the emotionally numb.

Strange, stylish, and unexpectedly sad—American Gigolo stays with you.