Film Reviews by griggs

The Devils is absolute madness — part history lesson, part full-blown nightmare — and still feels dangerous over 50 years on. Ken Russell doesn’t hold back, throwing everything at the screen in this wild, visually bonkers fever dream. Censors and studio execs butchered it when it came out in ’71. Warner Bros still won’t touch the fully uncut version, even though the missing bits were found and restored in 2004. The infamous “rape of Christ” scene? Still locked in the vault.

At its heart, The Devils is a furious, no-holds-barred rant about what happens when religion and politics get too cosy, and how those in charge can whip people into a frenzy to keep their grip on power. Oliver Reed is pure charisma as Grandier, swaggering through the chaos, while Vanessa Redgrave is hypnotically unhinged. Russell directs like a man possessed, and Derek Jarman’s sets are weird, stark, and unforgettable. It’s messy, noisy, and suitably uncomfortable — which is entirely the point. Despite all the drama around it, The Devils still hits hard today, especially in a world where truth feels optional and politics is pure theatre.

The Order might be set in the ’80s, but it’s got the grit and mood of a ’70s crime thriller—bleak, tense, and uneasy silences. Jude Law is surprisingly great as a burnt-out FBI agent sent to a quiet town to keep an eye on a bunch of neo-Nazis who’ve been keeping their heads down—until they don’t. Law plays it with just the right amount of world-weariness, like a guy who’s made too many mistakes and knows it. Nicholas Hoult is properly unnerving as the white supremacist’s ringleader, cold and unhinged in a way that never feels over the top. The plot dips occasionally, and a few moments are verging on the ridiculous. Still, when it kicks off, it really kicks off. The Order is one dark and moody film that is sadly very relevant to today’s world.

Slow, calm, and quietly intriguing, Shoplifters gently pulls you into a makeshift family, only to unravel a darker truth beneath the warmth. The twist creeps in, never loud, just unsettling. It makes you wonder: are laws and morality always right? Maybe love’s messier but somehow more honest. Thought-provoking.

Sweet Bean is lovely, gentle, pretty, and quietly acted, but I just wasn’t pulled in. It sort of drifts along, never quite gripping me or making me care much. I don’t regret watching it, but it left me feeling flat. It’s fine, it’s okay. Just very, very okay.

Sidney Lumet proves yet again he’s the king of New York City thrillers. Prince of the City is a gripping, slow-burn dive into police corruption, following Treat Williams as Daniel Ciello, a narcotics detective who turns informant—only to realise he’s over his head. Unlike Serpico, which digs deep into one man’s personal struggle, this plays out more like a meticulous police procedural, laying bare the tangled web of corruption, bureaucracy, and betrayal. Williams is phenomenal, shifting between cocky, paranoid, and completely unravelled as the pressure mounts.

Nobody films New York like Lumet. The city isn’t just a backdrop; it’s alive—loud, chaotic, and pulsing with tension. From sweaty police offices to dimly lit bars and soulless courtrooms, every scene oozes authenticity. The slow-burn pacing pulls you deeper into Ciello’s world, where every decision feels like a trap. A relentless, nerve-wracking must-watch.

Duel is an absolute nail-biter—the best thing I’ve ever seen from Spielberg. From the moment David Mann crossed paths with that rusted, smoke-belching truck, I was utterly hooked. The faceless driver turns a simple road trip into a relentless nightmare, with every roar of the engine feeling like a threat.

Dennis Weaver delivers a sweaty, truly human performance, throwing vanity aside to show real vulnerability. He’s not some action hero—just an average guy pushed to the edge, and you feel every ounce of his fear and frustration. Spielberg’s economy in storytelling is razor-sharp—no fluff, no wasted moments, just pure, escalating tension. The wide-open desert should be a place of escape, but here, it’s a suffocating trap. The camerawork is sharp, the editing tight, and the whole thing feels raw and honest.

And how on earth was this Spielberg’s debut? It’s too good—too assured, too masterful in its suspense. Most directors don’t make something this great in their whole careers, let alone straight out of the gate. And if you haven’t seen the 4K version, do yourself a favour—it looks incredible. The heat, the dust, the sweat, the sheer physicality of everything—every detail pops, making the film even more immersive. It’s stripped-down, edge-of-your-seat filmmaking at its absolute finest.

Kelly Reichardt, a master of quiet, deeply felt storytelling, once again proves her prowess in Kelly and Lucy. Her signature restraint captures visual beauty and narrative trauma, allowing emotion to simmer beneath the surface rather than spelling it out. As Reichardt's muse, Michelle Williams delivers a performance that is nothing short of magnificent, embodying so much with just a glance or pause. It is obvious why Reichardt casts Williams time and time again. Reichardt's trust in her audience is evident—there's no spoon-feeding, no over-explaining, just raw, lived-in moments that hit hard. The film lingers in your mind, not because it shouts, but because it whispers, leaving space for you to feel every unspoken ache and fleeting joy.

Hitchcock’s final film is a lighthearted caper packed with his usual tricks—mistaken identities, double-crosses, and an elaborate chase. The story is interesting enough, but the whole thing feels oddly small-scale, like an extended Murder, She Wrote or Columbo episode. The 1970s colour saturation only adds to that made-for-TV aesthetic. While it’s entertaining in parts, it lacks the tension and sharpness of his best work, and you never feel thoroughly captivated. The performances are decent, and there are flashes of Hitchcock’s wit, but it never truly soars. A curious farewell but not a particularly grand one.

Saboteur is classic Hitchcock—ordinary man on the run, sinister conspiracies, and a deep distrust of authority. It often feels like a remake of The 39 Steps and clearly influenced North by Northwest. Some scenes are brilliant, others a bit clunky, but it’s an enjoyable, if slightly uneven, thriller.

Sidney Lumet's Bye Bye Braverman is an odd mix—part road trip, part existential crisis, part satire. The setup sounds great on paper: four neurotic Jewish intellectuals set out for a friend's funeral, only to get lost in their own neuroses. There are funny moments and sharp dialogue, but the film never quite clicks. As always, Lumet makes New York look stunning, yet the film feels oddly sluggish. The comedy feels hesitant, relying too much on exaggerated caricatures, and the punchlines rarely land. You end up laughing at the characters' failings rather than with them. More a curio than a hidden gem—though Lumet fans may still find it worthwhile. Whilst I did enjoy it, it is ultimately, a missed opportunity.

The Future is the kind of indie film that feels like it’s reaching for something profound but never quite grasps it. Miranda July and Hamish Linklater play Sophie and Jason, a couple drifting through their thirties with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Their decision to adopt a sick cat—who also serves as a strange, philosophical narrator—sparks an existential crisis, sending them down separate, increasingly surreal paths.

The film leans heavily on whimsical narration, oddball dialogue, and moments of magical realism. At times, these elements add a melancholic charm, but more often, they feel like distractions from a fairly simple story about stagnation and regret. There’s a kernel of something interesting in how the film examines modern relationships—where love is more about comfort than passion, and change feels both necessary and terrifying—but it lacks the emotional depth to make that theme truly resonate.

Some will find its dreamy, detached style moving, but others may see it as frustratingly self-indulgent. It’s not without merit—there are moments of insight and a handful of effective scenes—but ultimately, it feels like a film that wants to be profound without fully earning its weight. A mixed bag at best.

The Searchers is a film I found tough to connect with. It’s undeniably influential, and there’s a lot to admire on a technical level, but watching it today is an uneasy experience.

A big part of that is how it portrays Native Americans. Some might argue it’s just a “product of its time,” but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. The way the film frames Indigenous people feels dated and insensitive, which makes it hard to fully engage with the story.

Then there’s John Wayne. His performance is strong, but it adds a harshness to the film that’s hard to ignore. His character is relentless and aggressive, and knowing what we do about Wayne himself, it’s difficult to separate the man from the role.

That said, The Searchers does at least acknowledge that the white characters can be just as brutal as the so-called “savages.” That bit of moral ambiguity makes it more complex than a lot of classic Westerns, even if it doesn’t totally redeem the film’s shortcomings.

Visually, though? Absolutely stunning. Ford and cinematographer Winton C. Hoch created some of the most breathtaking shots of the American West. The landscapes, the colours, the framing—it’s all top-tier. If anything stuck with me, it’s how incredible the film looks.

But great visuals only go so far. The story and characters never fully pulled me in, and the slow pacing made it feel like a bit of a slog. I was mostly just waiting for it to wrap up.

I can see why The Searchers is considered a classic, and I get why people still discuss it. But between the uncomfortable racial dynamics and the detached storytelling, it didn’t entirely work for me.

Herzog’s The Enigma of Kasper Hauser is a fascinating, sometimes unsettling film, full of moments of raw human connection. It makes you question whether ignorance is a gentler state than the burden of knowledge. Non-actor Bruno S., institutionalised from a young age, brings an authenticity that makes his performance deeply affecting. His own life story, being institutionalised from a young age, mirrors Kasper’s isolation, making Herzog’s choice to cast him feel almost inevitable. His presence is both haunting and moving, a perfect fit for Herzog’s style. It’s no surprise the director later created Stroszek for him, further exploring his unique, otherworldly quality.

Pool of London is gripping, stylish, and ahead of its time. The cinematography is stunning, with striking contrasts of light and shadow. Earl Cameron and Bonnar Colleano are both outstanding. Cameron’s relationship with Susan Shaw is quietly groundbreaking, tackling race in a way few films dared in the 1950s. A film with real tension and social depth.

Daisies is a visual feast—pure chaos in the best way. Two girls run wild, treating the world like it treats them—badly. They don't try to fix anything and just burn it all down with mischief and mayhem. Scamming meals, aggressively chopping up sausages while some guy whines on the phone, stuffing their faces with pickles and hard-boiled eggs with so much venom—it's all so much fun. Supposedly banned for depicting food wastage, but let's be honest, it probably just scared the party officials and the patriarchy.

Visually, Daisies is a riot of colour, texture, and daring experimentation. The scenes shift between dreamlike stills, rapid jump cuts, and changing colour palettes, turning everyday chaos into a hypnotic experience. The trippy train overlays feel like avant-garde art in motion. The film's form is in constant flux, jumping between slapstick, surrealism, and collage-like editing, keeping the viewer on edge. But what truly sets Daisies apart is its use of sound. Even silence is weaponized, with sudden bursts of sound creating an unpredictable atmosphere. Made two years before the Prague Spring, Daisies feels less like a film and more like a warning shot, an act of cinematic rebellion that still feels radical today.