Film Reviews by griggs

I've been dodging this one for years – traumatied by being forced to read the book in school. But I finally gave in, and honestly... it's better than expected.

Peter Brook drops a bunch of posh schoolboys on an island during a nuclear war and lets the whole thing spiral into tribal chaos. The cast are actual kids, not actors, which means the performances are scrappy – but somehow that makes it feel more real, like you're watching something raw and unpredictable unfold.

It's rough around the edges, sure, but that adds to its unsettling charm. The island setting looks incredibe and the descent into savagery hits hard, even if the message is about as subtle as a rock to the head.

It's not a perfect film, but it sticks with you. A messy, moody take on the book that actually earns its place as a classic.

That said, it's still not as sharp, funny, or weirdly insightful as The Simpsons parody Das Bus.

A stoner noir that fancies itself a cinematic Rosetta Stone but reads more like a paranoid Reddit thread with delusions of grandeur. Under the Silver Lake is all style, no substance—drenched in atmosphere and faux-cleverness but hollow as a Hollywood smile. Andrew Garfield plays a deeply unlikeable deadbeat who mistakes stalking for sleuthing and ends up parroting the film’s half-baked philosophy. It’s an unreliable narrator’s wet dream—except here, the dream just keeps going… and going.

There’s a compelling idea buried somewhere—something about the rot beneath Tinseltown’s glitter—but it’s smothered by lazy symbolism, indulgent detours, and a worldview that feels both smug and suspect. Women are sirens or sex workers, men are pervs or puppets, and the whole thing reeks of male insecurity dressed up as myth-busting satire. Worst of all, it toys with conspiracy tropes that echo antisemitic clichés.

Intentional or not, it’s a mess. It reaches for Lynchian mystery with Kaufman-esque depth—but what it delivers is 140 minutes of cinematic mansplaining.

Bunuel’s final film is pure provocation—a deadpan comedy of erotic frustration where logic takes a holiday, and desire ties itself in Freudian knots. The dual-actress trick is genius: two Conchitas, one obsession, zero resolution. It’s a surreal masterstroke that turns male fantasy into farce and keeps you guessing who’s seducing whom.

Fernando Rey bumbles through like a horny traffic warden with a martyr complex, falling head over pedantic heels for Conchita (both of them), who may or may not be a sex-positive anarchist troll. Every time he gets close—the door slams, the curtain drops, and the train leaves. It’s not so much cat-and-mouse as Kafka with kink.

Terrorists loom, passions smoulder, and the patriarchy gets punked in lace and flamenco. It’s maddening, yes—but gloriously so. A farewell from a filmmaker who never stopped playing with matches, even as the world burned.

Watching it now, it's hard to believe that The Wild One was banned in the UK for over a decade—apparently, it was too "socially dangerous" in 1953. These days, it feels more like a slow burn than a full-blown riot, but you can still sense the cultural shockwaves it must've caused. There's a steady, simmering tension beneath all that leather—proof the film still has bite. This is a proper landmark in the rebel film playbook, Brando barely has to move to command the screen.

Brando's Johnny is rebellion incarnate: all shrugs, stares, and that brooding don't-care energy. He's not deep, but he doesn't need to be—his presence alone does the talking. The plot's basically a western in biker gear: a gang rolls into a sleepy town, things spiral, and it all ends in a standoff between the old order and the outsiders. It's a simple setup, but there's plenty bubbling underneath—fear, control, identity, the works.

It may not feel shocking now, but The Wild One still hits a nerve. It nails that post-war restlessness—the sense of being stuck between what was and what's next. It's sharp, stylish, and still quietly challenging. And that iconic line—"What are you rebelling against?" "Whaddaya got?"—says more than any manifesto ever could.

Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome is where the grit of the wasteland gives way to something far more polished—and not in a good way. This is Mad Max with a Hollywood hair-do, a bloated budget, and a clear nod to George Lucas, especially in the elaborate world-building and those Ewok-adjacent kids.

The Thunderdome sequence is cracking stuff—bonkers, brutal, and genuinely iconic—but the rest wobbles. It’s not without charm, but it’s uneven, oddly tame, and veers dangerously close to silly. Once Max stumbles into a gang of feral children—more Peter Pan than post-apocalypse—the film drifts into fantasy territory. The raw survival edge? Lost somewhere in the sand.

A half-throttle entry that feels more blockbuster than brutal. It's not a total write-off, but it definitely jumps the shark… or at least drives a dune buggy straight over it. A strange, patchy detour in an otherwise legendary series.

Hell Drivers is one hell of a ride—gritty, gripping, and criminally underseen. Directed by Cy Endfield, who fled the U.S. after being blacklisted by HUAC, it burns with righteous anger and sweat-soaked adrenaline. Imagine The Wages of Fear rerouted through post-war Britain's dodgy backroads and gravel pits, swapping nitroglycerine for ballast and sheer desperation.

Noir, melodrama, and action collide in a film that’s rough-edged in all the right ways. The cast is absurdly stacked: Stanley Baker leads, with a rogue’s gallery of future icons in support—Herbert Lom, Patrick McGoohan, Sid James, Gordon Jackson, William Hartnell, David McCallum, and even a baby-faced Sean Connery. It’s tense, muscular stuff, pulsing with working-class fury.

There’s a whole subgenre of road-bound film noirs and noir-adjacent films, from They Drive by Night to Thieves Highway and other than The Wages of Fear, this might be the best of the lot.

John Malkovich slinks through Ripley's Game like a cobra in couture—magnetic, merciless, and surgically precise. This is a sleek, morally rotten thriller: visually sharp, coolly directed, and quietly absorbing. It simmers more than it scorches, and while the pacing falters and the supporting cast doesn't always hold up, there's real satisfaction in its elegant nastiness. It lacks the lush tension of The Talented Mr. Ripley or the strangeness of Purple Noon. Still, it's smoother than The American Friend. It's not quite top-tier Ripley, but Malkovich makes one hell of a deadly dinner guest.

Last Breath is a perfectly serviceable but oddly lifeless dramatisation of a harrowing real-life diving incident. Alex Parkinson, who also co-directed the documentary version, brings attention to detail but fails to convey any sense of jeopardy or urgency. Every expected beat is dutifully ticked off, from the futility of the mission to the swelling score, but the tension is sorely lacking. Despite the cast giving it a decent go, the whole thing feels inert, flatly directed and choppily edited. Functional, but far from gripping.

Lollipop is a punchy little kitchen sink drama that aims for those Ken Loach and Mike Leigh beats—and gives it a damned good go. It’s gritty, humane, and quietly furious. The cast is superb, delivering raw, believable performances that pull you straight in. It’s hard not to feel angry watching it—once again, it takes a film to expose the system’s failings. Not perfect, but undeniably powerful. One that sticks with you—just like the name suggests.

I really wanted Dangerous Animals to be a bitey shark-fest but it ended up like a soggy fish finger.

The Cup is a modest yet endearing film that gently explores the intersection of tradition and modernity. Set in a Tibetan monastery, it follows a group of young monks whose fascination with the World Cup brings humour and warmth to the narrative. Though the filmmaking is unpolished and straightforward, the story’s sincerity carries it through. It offers thoughtful cultural insights and a quiet reflection on change, faith, and youthful curiosity. The highest praise I can offer is that it left me with a genuine, heartfelt smile. A gentle, rewarding watch—if not a truly remarkable one.

The Cocoanuts is peak early Marx Brothers—chaotic, clever, and constantly derailed by dreadful musical numbers. Groucho and Chico shine with rapid-fire nonsense, Harpo’s mischief lands and Dumont is her usual foil. But the songs? Absolutely grating. Worth a skim for the comedy, but skip the crooning.

Whereas Animal Crackers is a marked step up. The gags are sharper, the pacing tighter, and the musical numbers are entertaining. Songs like “Hooray for Captain Spaulding” are witty and plot-relevant, not just filler between farce. Groucho is in top form as the pompous explorer. At the same time, Chico and Harpo bring their usual blend of mischief and musicality. Margaret Dumont is once again the perfect comic foil. Zeppo, however, looks deeply uncomfortable—like he wandered onto the set by accident and stayed out of politeness. No wonder he swapped acting for business. He’s not bad, just severely out of place.

Horse Feathers finds the Marx Brothers enrolled in college, which is just an excuse for academic anarchy, bad puns, and a football game that obeys no rules known to man or sport. Groucho plays the newly appointed president of Huxley College with his usual disdain for logic, decency, and faculty meetings. Chico and Harpo crash the campus like two mischievous wrecking balls, and the whole thing moves at a pace faster than you can say, “Swordfish.” The plot’s threadbare, but the gags come thick and fast. Silly, surreal, and packed with one-liners—it’s a 2:2 degree in Marxist comedy.

Tareque Masud’s debut The Clay Bird is a quietly affecting coming-of-age tale set against the backdrop of a nation on the brink. It’s rich in symbolism—songs about caged birds, the titular clay bird itself—all hinting at a longing for freedom, both personal and political. The child actors are outstanding, often outshining the adults.

It brought Kes to mind more than once: both films find aching beauty in a boy’s brief glimpses of freedom. Where Kes soars through Yorkshire grit, The Clay Bird drifts through spiritual and political turmoil. But both share a deep empathy for children boxed in by adult dogma, and both use birds as gentle, tragic symbols of escape.

While the film is thoughtful and deeply felt, Masud occasionally overdoes the stylistic touches, which can pull focus from the story’s emotional core. Still, as a first film, it’s ambitious and moving—a heartfelt portrait of innocence caught in the crossfire of ideology.

There’s no susceptible plot— just a procession of living icons from the life of an 18th-century Armenian poet. Pomegranates bleed like hearts, monks drift like smoke, and time folds in on itself like worn parchment. The Color of Pomegranates doesn’t so much tell a story as hum it—through gesture, texture, and ritual. It’s like absorbing a memory through the skin. Baffling, yes—but also sacred, strange, and undeniably beautiful. I spent most of it adrift, oddly spellbound. If Jodorowsky directed a fragrance advert, it might look like this. I don’t understand it, but I don’t think I need to. I just know I’ve seen something rare.

99 River Street is a cracking slice of noir, full of regret, grit, and people nursing the bruises of a life gone sideways. It’s packed with characters who once had dreams but now just try to stay afloat. And at the heart of it all, John Payne delivers a brilliant performance as the worn-down ex-boxer caught in a night that goes from bad to worse. The plot zips along, the tension builds nicely, and the whole thing looks terrific. A proper gem for fans of shadowy streets and dashed hopes.