Film Reviews by griggs

Ida is quiet, spare, and devastating in its stillness. Shot in crisp black and white with a square frame that often leaves characters adrift in empty space, it says as much through absence as it does through dialogue. At its heart is the tension between Ida and Wanda—faith and doubt, silence and guilt—but the real divide is internal. Anna, the obedient novice, is all passivity. Ida, who emerges as the film unfolds, begins to make choices.

The Holocaust’s legacy is ever-present, not just in what happened, but in what remains unspoken. This isn’t a story about survivors—it’s about those born into the silence that followed. Memory competes with the desire to forget, or at least not be reminded. Commemoration is handled by the state, not the people.

Ida isn’t really the protagonist, but a vessel—shaped, questioned, manipulated. Her nunhood is almost incidental; she could have been anything. What matters is what she chooses, once she knows the weight of her past.

Epidemic is far from von Trier’s best, but as a second film it hints at where he was heading–especially the raw, lo-fi sensibility that would later shape Dogme 95. If this has been my introduction to his work, it would probably have put me off for good. The metaphysical and metafictional framing is tough going, only really clicking in the last 20 minutes. Still, watching it retrospectively, it’s fascinating to see the early seeds of his style take root.

The Limits of Control is Jarmusch at his most Dadaist–opaque, stylised, and willfully obtuse. The plot barely matters. What you get instead is mood, rhythm, and a string of cryptic encounters that will either pull you in or push you away. You’ll love or loathe it. Isaach De Bankolé floats through Spain like a Zen cipher, and Tilda Swinton’s surreal monologue on The Lady from Shanghai is especially beguiling. If this weren’t the work of one of indie cinema’s elder gods, you might genuinely wonder whether this film happened at all–or if you just dreamt it.

Raging Bull feels like a film Scorsese made as if it were his last—every frame, every cut, every sound is delivered with a level of intensity that borders on obsession. The boxing scenes are astonishing. Shot with the camera tight in the ring, they create a sense of tunnel vision that draws you into each blow, each breath, each roar of the crowd. It’s not just visual—it’s visceral. You don’t just see the punches; you feel them.

But all of that would be style if it weren’t for the character study at the centre: Jake La Motta, pure undiluted toxic masculinity personified. I hadn’t seen this since a screening 25 years ago, which was cut short due to complaints about the violence and language. Fair enough—the domestic abuse scenes are brutal. But this is La Motta’s life, not fiction, lifted directly from his autobiography Raging Bull: My Story. If a screenwriter had invented him, he’d be accused of going too far. Emotionally stunted and prone to sudden, senseless violence, he’s a man incapable of love—only ownership. He beats his wife, alienates his brother, sabotages his own career, and still believes the world owes him something.

De Niro throws everything into this. He trained as a boxer, gained 60 pounds to play the washed-up La Motta, and famously pushed Scorsese to make the film. It shows. His performance is raw, unrelenting, and often hard to watch. Joe Pesci, pulled from obscurity and retirement by De Niro, matches him beat for beat.

Thelma Schoonmaker’s Oscar winning editing is extraordinary, turning chaos into poetry. Together, she and Scorsese created something close to cinematic perfection—about a man who was anything but. Still, it’s hard to ignore the uncomfortable truth that the film put La Motta back in the spotlight. A man who deserved to fade into obscurity found new fame—not despite his violence, but partly because of it.

Menace II Society isn’t perfect, but it still packs a punch. Thirty years on, it looks and feels like something that could be made today—raw, stylish, and painfully relevant. What stands out now is how it’s far more than just a gang drama. The Hughes brothers deliver a textured, unflinching critique of systemic failure, youth desperation, and the crushing limitations of urban life. It’s angry, yes, but it’s also clear-eyed and emotionally honest.

The violence is brutal but never glamorised. You feel the cost of every choice made. Some of the dialogue hasn’t aged well, and a few characters feel more like types than people, but overall the film still carries weight. Menace II Society remains a landmark of '90s American cinema, and its themes are, depressingly, just as urgent today.

Straw Dogs is one of those films that lingers—disturbing, provocative, and impossible to shrug off. It comes out of that early ‘70s moment when directors were tearing down the old rulebook: violence, sex, masculinity, and the uneasy limits of liberal values were all suddenly fair game. Think A Clockwork Orange or Dirty Harry, but with more mud and menace. Yes, the sexism and misogyny are front and centre, and there’s a troubling, almost proto-fascist edge to its idea of justice. But it’s also a razor-sharp portrait of simmering male rage and middle-class fear, and you can see its influence in decades of cinema that followed. Peckinpah doesn’t pull punches, and neither does Dustin Hoffman—quiet, brilliant, and tightly wound. Cornwall becomes a crucible of dread, as claustrophobic as it is beautiful. It’s not a comforting film, nor is it trying to be. It’s a gut-punch that still resonates, even if it leaves you uneasy.

The Endless Summer is a time capsule of the 1960s surfing scene—sun-drenched beaches, perfect waves, and that ever-hopeful pursuit of the endless ride. The film wins you over with gorgeous visuals, an infectious soundtrack, and a real love for its subject. The corny, but dry humour from the voiceover adds charm at first, but its dated, paternalistic, condescending and patronising tone—especially when discussing African cultures—grates. Unless you're big on surfing, this is more a nostalgic curio than essential viewing. Still, worth a look.

The Big Easy aims for sultry Southern charm, but the spell breaks in under 30 seconds—Dennis Quaid opens his mouth, and out comes one of the worst New Orleans accents you’re ever likely to hear. From there, it’s a strange mix. Characters come and go without warning or payoff, the plot drifts then lurches, and it all plays like a genre mash-up that never quite lands. Marketed as an erotic thriller, it leans more toward romantic comedy—with a few jarring bursts of violence thrown in for good measure. Still, its use of colour and location gives it a visual flair more memorable than the story. Overall, it’s a bit of a muddle—neither hot enough to sizzle nor sharp enough to sting, but watchable for curiosity’s sake.

Set against a sun-scorched, sweat drenched Australian outback, The Proposition is as brutal as it is beautiful. Despite Guy Pearce getting top billing, it’s Ray Winstone—quiet, tormented, and surprisingly restrained—who carries the film. That said, it’s John Hurt and Emily Watson, each with limited screen time, who make the biggest impact. Their performances are sharp, unsettling, and stick with you. The story never quite grips as much as it promises, but it simmers with dread and builds to a dramatic, blood-soaked finale. Bleak, slow-burning, and atmospheric—though not as engaging as I’d hoped, it still leaves a mark.

Céline and Julie Go Boating is a dreamy, playful tangle of identity, memory, and Parisian magic. At times it feels like Lewis Carroll wandered in—logic left at the door, replaced by whimsy, wordplay, and winks to the audience. Juliet Berto and Dominique Labourier are endlessly watchable, carrying the film with sheer charm and mischief. It’s as much about female friendship as it is about narrative games, inviting you to get lost in a loop of stories within stories. That said, it wasn’t always smooth sailing for me—some stretches really tested my patience, and if you’re looking for plot-driven clarity, it might well drive you round the bend. But once I gave myself over to its peculiar rhythm, I found it full of moments of pure delight. It’s the kind of film that resists easy explanation but lingers in your mind—like a half-remembered dream that somehow makes more sense the less you try to pin it down.

Gloria might throw you if you’re used to Cassavetes’ usual rough-and-ready style—this studio outing is suprisingly polished, almost slick by his standards. But once you adjust, there's a lot to admire.

Gena Rowlands is phenomenal, playing Gloria, fierce, multi-layered and strangely tender. It's a role that could've gone cartoonish, but she grounds it in something real. The plot—a woman protecting a kid from the mob—leans toward thriller territory, but there's Cassavete's usual warmth and melancholy just under the surface.

It's not Cassavetes' deepest work, but it's one of his most accessible, and Rowlands is, as ever, the beating heart of it.

Summer of 85 is an enjoyable ride through teenage longing, jealousy, and grief, with a few emotional turns that caught me off guard in a good way. Ozon touches all the familiar coming-of-age beats—first love, obsession, loss—but doesn’t do much to elevate them. The story-within-a-story framing feels a bit forced and doesn’t add much beyond reminding us that things will turn tragic. The young cast are charismatic and hold the film together with charm and chemistry, even when the script feels like it’s coasting. It’s impossible not to think of Call Me by Your Name—this feels like a more accessible cousin, but one that doesn’t quite linger in the same way. All in all, it’s a solid, sometimes poignant summer tale, but Ozon seems content staying in his comfort zone.

Hell or High Water is a modern Western with grit under its nails and dust in its lungs. It’s got that sunbaked, small-town tension where every glance holds a grudge and every dollar feels stolen. Chris Pine and Ben Foster play desperate brothers with real chemistry—haunted, but oddly likeable—and Jeff Bridges growls his way through as a crusty old lawman on their trail. The film’s not flashy, but it’s beautifully shot, tightly written, and loaded with slow-burn menace. It’s about family, failure, and the cruel grind of poverty. A film that knows how to simmer before it finally boils.

Bakshi sold Cool World as an adult Roger Rabbit, but it’s a total mess. Half the time you’ve no idea what’s going on—scenes fly by so fast and chaotically it’s like watching someone channel surf on acid. The animation’s all over the place, the characters stretch and morph so much they lose all personality, and the live-action bits never blend in. Even the big Holli Would moment gets ruined by pointless cutaways. It’s noisy, messy, and just plain baffling.

The Night Porter is a deliberately provocative and deeply discomforting watch. Charlotte Rampling and Dirk Bogarde deliver fearless, unnerving performances as a former concentration camp inmate and her captor, now locked in a disturbing cycle of sadomasochistic obsession. Their chemistry is electric but warped, blurring the lines between power, trauma, and survival.

The film leans into the fetishisation of fascism: uniforms, rituals, and control become sources of perverse allure, raising uncomfortable questions about how atrocity can be aestheticised or eroticised. It’s an allegory for post-war Europe’s moral amnesia, where former Nazis live quietly among us and the past is not so much buried as replayed. The film’s kink elements aren’t objectionable because they involve kink—but because they conflate it with abuse, domination, and historical trauma in ways that are designed to make the viewer squirm.

Cavani offers no easy answers, and that’s both the film’s strength and its discomfort. You won’t enjoy it in any conventional sense, but it stays with you—queasy, challenging, and impossible to dismiss.