Film Reviews by griggs

Aki Kaurismäki’s The Man Without a Past is a quietly affecting tale of rebirth and reinvention. After a brutal assault leaves him with amnesia, a man starts a new life among the fringes of Helsinki society. What could’ve been bleak is instead laced with understated warmth and the driest of humour. Kaurismäki’s trademark deadpan style strips events of sentimentality, letting small gestures and silences carry real weight. Themes of resurrection and dignity run throughout, as the man chooses not to reclaim his past but to reshape his future. It’s modest in scope but lingers, offering a gentle take on second chances.

La Bête Humaine really got under my skin. Based on Zola’s novel, Renoir’s film is a tragic love triangle wrapped in the screeching metal of modernisation. It was noir before noir had a name. The first 30 minutes take their time setting the scene, but it's properly gripping once the plot kicks in. What starts as a murder story becomes something darker — about obsession, violence, and people trapped by their own urges. It’s rough, emotional stuff, and Jean Gabin is brilliant as the tormented train driver. Murder, madness, and machines — it’s all there, clattering along like a runaway train.

It’s like The Stepford Wives was written by Christopher Guest and then co-directed by David Lynch and Wes Anderson on a helium bender—hydrated exclusively by pool water.

I didn’t expect Bergman Island to affect me the way it did—but it did, quietly and insistently. On the surface, it’s breezy and low-stakes: a filmmaker couple (Tim Roth and Vicky Krieps) retreat to Bergman’s beloved Fårö to write, walk, and maybe talk about their feelings. The first half leans heavily on Bergman name-drops—almost comically so—but this isn’t really about him.

What Mia Hansen-Løve delivers instead is a tender meditation on how life and art blur into one another. When Krieps begins describing her screenplay, the film slides into a story-within-a-story—her fiction unfolding, echoing her reality. It’s subtle but resonant, with emotion layered beneath every quiet moment.

There’s an autobiographical current running through it—the age gaps, the creative friction—mirroring Hansen-Løve’s own history with Olivier Assayas. It’s not flashy, but it’s meticulously constructed —a latticework of narrative and emotion. By the end, I was surprised by how much it had crept under my skin.

Utter filth, absolute nonsense—and I sort of loved it! The Greasy Strangler is a one-joke fever dream stretched way past its natural limits, then deep-fried in something unspeakable. It’s grotesque, repetitive, and proud of it, like a late-night sketch show that’s gone rogue. Every scene feels like a dare, and somehow, that adds to the charm. It’s not good, not really—but it is wildly entertaining. If nothing else, it’s unforgettable. Greasy, grimy, glorious trash.

I've got zero interest in Diana or the Royal Family—I'm not here for tiaras, trauma, or tabloid nostalgia. But I gave this a go because I had heard tremendous things about Kristen Stewart's performance. She's… fine. It's more high-end impression than full-body possession. Good wig work, though.

The title is a bit misleading. If you take what's on-screen at face value, it's less Spencer and more Saint Diana and the Haunted House of Windsor. She's depicted as the tragic commoner abducted by a clan of aristocratic ghouls. However, the reality is she wasn't exactly plucked from the Tesco tills—she grew up next door in her own palatial estate. More moated manor than maisonette.

Visually stylish but emotionally hollow, it drags itself through posh corridors like it's carrying the weight of national grief on its back. Bleak, self-serious, and convinced it's saying something profound. It's not. It's posh misery porn—and not even the juicy kind.

The Crimson Kimono is a cracking little noir-adjacent thriller that veers off the beaten path—in more ways than one. It starts with a familiar murder-mystery setup, then swerves into a love triangle and unexpected questions about race, loyalty, and identity. James Shigeta is effortlessly charismatic, and the LA backdrop feels fresh and lived-in. Snappy, stylish, and quietly radical, it’s a rare gem that dares to poke the genre in the ribs.

Carlos is a gripping, globe-trotting epic that strips back the myth of Carlos the Jackal. This revolutionary-turned-terrorist ended up on band posters like a Che Guevara knock-off for the rave generation. Edgar Ramírez is electric in the lead, oozing charisma, menace, and just enough self-doubt. His Carlos is part rockstar, part egomaniac—fuelled by politics, vanity, and a desperate need to be feared.

Director Olivier Assayas brings serious style to the table. There’s a kinetic energy throughout that keeps the near-three-hour runtime feeling surprisingly lean. The sun-soaked, grainy ‘70s palette makes the whole thing feel ripped from a vintage newsreel. At the same time, the pacing dodges the usual biopic bloat. It’s a slick blend of character study and crash course in Cold War chaos. A proper binge-watch for anyone into espionage, ego, and men who think a pair of aviators makes them bulletproof.

Having watched Seven Days in May, I’ve completed Frankenheimer’s Paranoia Trilogy—and what bleak, brilliant films they are. Set in a near-future America (i.e. the late 1960s, a couple of years after its release), this is full-blown Cold War anxiety played out in the corridors of power, with coups plotted over bourbon and classified memos. It might be the most grounded of the three films, but that doesn’t mean it lacks punch. There’s a creeping dread throughout, which is more unsettling because everyone involved thinks they’re doing the right thing.

Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas are fantastic as ideological opposites on a collision course. Frankenheimer directs with his usual sharp eye for composition and tension. It doesn’t quite have the operatic madness of Seconds (my all-time favourite film) or the razor-sharp satire of The Manchurian Candidate. Still, it rounds out the trilogy (in my watch order) perfectly: tense, intelligent, and the terrifyingly plausible idea that an ultra-conservative coup on US soil. But don’t worry, that could never happen in the real world… could it?

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers is a gripping little noir four-hander where everyone’s dragging secrets like suitcases full of bricks. It’s a tale packed with betrayal, guilt, and people trying—and failing—to escape their pasts. I really should save films like this for Noirvember. Still, I can’t resist anything with Barbara Stanwyck. She dominates every scene—never second to any man, and certainly not here.

Kirk Douglas, in his debut, gives a surprisingly nuanced turn as the guilt-ridden, spineless husband. He may be a wet lettuce, but he’s compelling all the same. The fact that Stanwyck apparently gave him her seal of approval says a great deal.

The film, while engaging, is overstuffed with side plots, and I kept wanting more of Stanwyck’s magnetic presence. It holds your attention, but now and then, it strays past noir’s sweet spot and tumbles into full-blown melodrama.

Nothing But Trouble feels like a nightmarish fever dream from the mid-'80s, even though it limped into cinemas in '91. Dan Aykroyd—still riding his post-Ghostbusters high—goes full mad scientist here: directing, co-writing, casting Chevy Chase, and subjecting us to not one but two hideously unfunny roles, complete with grotesque prosthetics and a nose that looks suspiciously phallic. He ropes in Demi Moore and a game John Candy—both being the only ones to emerge with any dignity intact.

The origin of Nothing But Trouble is almost as baffling as the film itself. Aykroyd claims the idea came after being pulled over in a small town and taken to court for a minor traffic offence—hauled before a local judge in a surreal scene that stuck with him. Rather than process the moment like a normal person, he turned it into a grotesque comedy-horror hybrid, apparently inspired by a viewing of Hellraiser.

There are giant mutant babies and a junkyard theme park. It's a whirlwind of unoriginal tropes and chaos from start to finish—but not the fun kind. Then, Tupac, yes, Tupac, randomly shows up for a musical interlude that reeks of studio interference—going nowhere and adding nothing. In a film already bursting with nonsense, it's like someone accidentally spliced in a music video, and nobody bothered to cut it.

It's the sort of mess you watch in disbelief, wondering how anyone said yes to it, often finding yourself chuckling at the sheer absurdity of it all rather than anything intentional.

La Cocina is a solid, if slightly uneven, kitchen-sink drama—quite literally, since most of it takes place in a subterranean, windowless kitchen beneath a swanky, tourist-trap restaurant in Times Square. The highlight is a gripping 14-minute single-take sequence set during the lunch rush, where knives fly, orders pile up, and the dreaded ticket machine begins to accelerate like a ticking bomb. All the while, the kitchen quietly floods, unnoticed by the staff, adding to the mounting dread.

It’s hard not to think of Boiling Point, which maintained that pressure for an entire film with a single continuous shot. La Cocina doesn’t go that far—it lacks that level of confidence or control—but the influence is clear. Still, this film brings its own flavour. The underground setting, the leaking soda machine, the sensory overload—it all makes the space feel less like a kitchen and more like the engine room in Das Boot: claustrophobic, boiling, and always seconds from disaster.

The plot kicks off when money goes missing, triggering a top-down manhunt. The undocumented Latino staff—previously invisible—suddenly find themselves under suspicion in what morphs into a grim, Noir-tinged mystery. Upstairs, it’s all charm and curated smiles, with attractive white waitresses fronting the operation, while a smug, exploitative owner hides behind his fashionable suit and secure immigration status, sending his lackeys to do his dirty work.

La Cocina doesn’t always stick the landing. Its social commentary can be a bit blunt, and its storytelling loses focus at times. But there’s a raw, urgent energy when it hits its stride—especially when the pressure’s turned all the way up.

You can’t accuse Luca Guadagnino of taking it easy—he churns out films like he’s on a deadline from the gods. But with Queer, you do start to wonder: is he spreading himself too thin? It’s moody, stylish, and impossibly pretty, as if Guadagnino is seducing cinema itself. Every shot aches with longing; every glance lingers like a lover’s touch. Daniel Craig oozes charm—older, cooler, and more dangerous than ever. He glides through the film like he knows he’s being watched—and he likes it.

But the film never gets its hands dirty. It teases, it toys, it unbuttons your shirt and whispers something filthy—and then politely excuses itself. No grip, no thrust, no release. Just mood, musk, and the ghost of a film that should've ruined you. It should have been a visceral experience, tearing through flesh, drawing blood, and leaving you trembling. It should’ve left bruises. Instead, it leaves perfume.

The Cars That Ate Paris is an oddball slice of early Aussie cinema that never quite figures out what kind of film it wants to be. It sets off like it’s heading toward something surreal and sinister but quickly stalls. The fictional and rural town of Paris is pitched as a self-sufficient outpost clinging to the past, full of wary smiles and buried secrets. It hints at Wicker Man -style creepiness but never builds enough tension to deliver on that promise.

Peter Weir, making his feature debut, focuses more on quiet character moments than any real sense of momentum. We follow Arthur, a confused outsider with a thousand-yard stare, as he wanders through a town that’s equal parts sinister and silly. There’s a supposed clash between generations—grizzled locals and teens in souped-up deathmobiles—but it’s mostly background noise.

The infamous spiked car is admittedly a cool design. Still, its delayed entrance and underwhelming impact just sum up the whole film: more concept than execution. There’s a thin layer of satire under the surface, but it’s too murky to land.

Yes, there’s a whiff of Hot Fuzz in the setup—a quaint town with a violent streak—but where Edgar Wright went full throttle, this one mostly putters around the paddock. Curious? Sure. Essential? Not really. Disappointing? Most definitely.

The Force of Evil is often labelled a noir classic, but for me, it’s more of a cult curiosity—ambitious but ultimately overrated. There’s no denying the film’s central idea is compelling: two brothers caught in a corrupt system, each blaming themselves for the other’s downfall. John Garfield plays the slick lawyer chasing success, only to realise too late that he’s sold out his own brother. At the same time, Thomas Gomez gives a weighty turn as the elder sibling who may have sown those seeds to begin with.

The film is loaded with symbolism—none more evident than Garfield’s final descent down a shadowy staircase—but it’s not always subtle. The characters narrate much of the story, spelling everything out in case we miss the point. The dialogue has moments of poetic rhythm, but it often feels more performative than natural.

What’s perhaps most interesting is the context. Made during the rise of the McCarthy witch-hunts, the film’s paranoia and internal moral conflict take on extra meaning. You can feel the unease running beneath the surface. Still, despite the good intentions and flashes of brilliance, it left me more cold than captivated.