Film Reviews by griggs

Society kicks off like a naff cousin of Beverly Hills 90210—all plastic smiles, soft focus, and hair gel—before veering wildly into Cronenberg-meets-class-war territory. For most of the runtime, it flirts with satire but never fully leans in. The characters are shallow, the dialogue is cringeworthy, and the setting feels as synthetic as the leads' teeth. If it's meant to skewer the upper crust, the blade's pretty blunt—until the finale, when all bets are off.

The last ten minutes? Absolute chaos. Brian Yuzna lets rip, and Screaming Mad George earns his name with a gooey, grotesque set piece that's hard to forget. It's silly, yes—but also weirdly compelling. The rich aren't just out of touch—they're another species entirely. The metaphor isn't exactly subtle, but the way it's executed is so off-the-wall that it works.

It's not perfect—messy, uneven, often daft—but it leaves a mark. And that final sequence? Disgustingly delightful.

I knew Destiny was historically significant, but I didn’t expect it to hit so hard. It’s one thing to read about repression and resistance from afar—it’s another to watch it unfold through a story this intimate, this brave, and this quietly heartbreaking. The film opened a window into lives and struggles I’ll never fully understand. For 90 minutes, I felt the weight of it, not as an outsider looking in but as someone witnessing something real, raw, and still painfully relevant.

Destiny (or Dakan) isn’t the most polished film you’ll ever see, but the fact that it exists at all is remarkable. Released in 1997, it was the first West African feature to openly tackle homosexuality, and it stirred up a storm: protests, threats, and funding pulled mid-shoot. You can feel that tension throughout, but what’s surprising is how gentle and sincere the film is.

The plot’s pretty straightforward—two young men in love, parents who freak out, and a community that can’t accept it. There’s even a scene where Manga’s mum turns to witchcraft to “cure” him. It edges into the surreal but somehow still feels grounded.

Camara’s direction is simple, sometimes raw, but always heartfelt. The acting’s uneven, sure, but there’s a real emotional core. It’s not slick, but it doesn’t need to be. Destiny was—and still is—a landmark for LGBTQ+ stories in Africa. It is quietly defiant and all the more powerful for it.

Those Whom Death Refused is more significant than it is gripping, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth your time. As the first film to come out of Guinea-Bissau, its historical weight is undeniable. Rather than glorify the war for independence, Flora Gomes presents it as something quieter, more patient–no grand speeches, no rousing battles. Just ordinary people enduring extraordinary hardship. Telling this story through the eyes of a woman feels both rare and powerful.

Some scenes do have a tendency to drag, especially when the film leans into slow observational stretches. But others linger–particularly the moment news spreads of the independence leader’s death. The camera holds still as grief ripples across the camp, and you feel the weight of everything these people have survived.

This is less a war film than a mournful reflection–not for those who died, but for those left behind to rebuild, to rediscover their identity, and to imagine a future rooted in their own beliefs, myths, and culture.

House of Games is a film that impresses with its control. The structure, the dialogue, the pacing—it’s all meticulously managed. Watching it unfold feels like watching a stage magician: you know it’s a trick, but you still want to see how it’s pulled off.

If you start picking at the seams, there are a few wild coincidences, and the psychology leans heavily into pop-Freud. Still, it’s delivered with such confidence that you’re happy to be taken in. The cons are layered with flair, each one raising the stakes, and even when the final act veers into the theatrical, the tension holds firm.

Joe Mantegna is superb as the smooth-talking grifter—slick, sly, and oddly likeable. Lindsay Crouse is more of a mixed bag; her clipped, stagey delivery works in places but sometimes undercuts the realism. Nevertheless, this is a stylish, twisty thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat, knowing precisely what it’s doing.

I missed Novocaine in the cinema—wrong continent, wrong time. It’s not quite as wild or unhinged as it could have been, but there’s still a good bit of fun. Quaid holds it all together nicely, but Amber Midthunder walks away with the whole thing. It might not be a classic, but it's definitely better than expected.

I remember the buzz when Good Will Hunting dropped—two fresh-faced upstarts, Damon and Affleck, writing an Oscar-winning script? It felt like the start of a long, golden screenwriting partnership. With hindsight… well, it was more of a mic drop than a launchpad. Still, the film itself holds up remarkably well. It’s a smart, heartfelt drama that blends working-class grit with emotional honesty. Robin Williams is the soul of it—quiet, bruised, and brilliant. His scenes with Damon are the emotional anchor, and the “It’s not your fault” moment hits, even if you know it’s coming.

The writing walks a careful line: a bit sentimental, sure, and a touch tidy around the edges, but always sincere. There’s real craft here, whether or not they had outside help (cough, cough Goldman). It may have been a one-off, but it was a hell of a one-off—and they cashed that cheque like pros.

Road to Perdition is moody, mournful prestige pulp, wrapped in a father-son tragedy. Hanks swaps charm for cold resolve, Newman oozes weary gravitas, and Jude Law slithers in as a ghoulish photographer. The plot’s simple, but the atmosphere does the heavy lifting—rain, silence, and glances speak louder than gunfire. Conrad Hall’s cinematography is gorgeous: every frame could hang in a gallery. It’s not flashy, but it hits hard—an elegy told in shadows and silence.

I started watching Burning, convinced I hadn’t seen it—then slowly realised I’d just erased the first 40 minutes from memory. Fitting, really, for a film steeped in ambiguity, obsession, and the gaps between what’s said and what’s meant. The plot follows Jong-su, a drifting, aspiring writer who reconnects with Haemi, a childhood acquaintance, just as she vanishes after introducing him to the enigmatic and unsettling Ben (Steven Yeun, perfectly cast as the human embodiment of a red flag). It’s a masterclass in slow-build tension: the pace is glacial, but the dread seeps in gradually, almost imperceptibly.  

Director Lee Chang-dong plays with perspective and unreliable memory, crafting a story that never resolves but refuses to let go. Yoo Ah-in gives a brilliantly contained performance, all awkward energy and imploding anxiety. The cinematography is muted but quietly stunning—especially in the twilight sequences. At times, it is maddeningly vague, but that opacity is part of its eerie, lingering power.

Be Kind Rewind might be an old-school pick now—VHS tapes feel like ancient relics—but its scrappy charm still holds up. It feels like something you would’ve thrown together in a garage—wonky costumes, dodgy props, and all. The homemade film remakes are pure joy: daft, messy, and full of heart. Jack Black’s in full chaotic mode, and while the plot’s thin, the DIY energy and sweet nostalgia make it a real treat.

If you liked this, try Superboys of Malegaon—same joyful, handmade spirit.

Logan isn’t about heroics but loss, memory, and saying goodbye. A proper end-of-the-road Western with claws, it swaps comic book chaos for something quieter, sadder, and more grounded. Its dusty landscapes, dystopian mood, and emotional weight hit hard, setting the tone for a farewell rather than a finale.

Jackman and Stewart bring a weary humanity to their roles—tired, haunted, and holding on by a thread. With her oversized sunglasses and calm, unreadable stare, Laura channels a miniature femme fatale—part Stanwyck, part silent fury. She’s the wild card in a story full of ghosts.

The film quietly shifts the X-Men metaphor from civil rights to migrant survival. The Latinx mutant children evoke exploited labour—created, used, and discarded by a profit-driven system. With Xavier’s school gone and the dream in ruins, resistance becomes an escape. It’s no longer about winning the fight but surviving it.

A fitting, mournful send-off.

Neptune Frost is a bold, rhythmic swirl—part sci-fi, part musical, all rebellion. It pulses with ideas about anti-colonialism, identity, and queerness but never spells anything out. The colours are electric—hot pinks, golds, and glowing blues—and the costumes are a full-on feast. The soundtrack thumps, the imagery sticks, and the whole thing feels handmade yet futuristic. It’s dense, often confusing, and makes no effort to hold your hand—but that’s part of the charm. Quite something.

Where the Sidewalk Ends is so hard-boiled it could crack teeth. The plot—crooked cops, mob ties, mistaken guilt—is tight but honestly becomes secondary to Dana Andrews' bruising of his knuckles and his soul. Watching him beat himself up for 90 minutes is the real hook here. Otto Preminger keeps it moody and sharp, with Gene Tierney lending unexpected warmth. It's a noir where the biggest villain might just be a conscience that won't shut up.

Tornado is a strange, striking film—its blend of Western and samurai visual language playing out against the bleak beauty of the Scottish Highlands. The story of a Japanese father and daughter crossing paths with Tim Roth’s gang carries real weight, even if the film keeps its backstory deliberately cryptic. The moody cinematography and evocative score do most of the heavy lifting, creating a rich, brooding atmosphere. Roth, near-mute, stalks the film like a man long resigned to his fate. It’s slow, yes—but intentionally so. An unusual film that lingers in the mind, even if it doesn’t quite satisfy.

Echo Valley is a decent enough thriller, though it never quite hits the heights it seems to be aiming for. It’s a shame it didn’t get a wider cinematic release—being on the big screen might’ve helped with the atmosphere. Like Hallow Road, it’s got that same mix of slightly unbelievable twists and messy decisions, all anchored by the idea of a parent doing whatever it takes for their child. Not great, but there’s enough here to keep you watching.

I've steered clear of Last Days for years—the synopsis alone made my skin crawl. Sadly, I wasn’t wrong. Gus Van Sant’s semi-fictionalised take on the final hours of a grunge icon (read: Kurt, but legally distinct) plays less like a film and more like one of those awkward reconstructions in true crime docs. Only here, there’s no context, no insight—just a mostly mute man shuffling about in a fog.

There’s no real attempt to explore addiction, illness, or inner turmoil. Just silence, mumbling, and a lot of moody wandering. It all feels strangely hollow, as if Van Sant wants the emotional heft of a documentary but without any of the responsibility.

And when not-Kurt’s body is found, Van Sant stages it with such cold and exacting precision it feels ripped from tabloid pages. It's invasive, joyless, and disturbingly self-satisfied. Best avoided.