Film Reviews by griggs

Chopper is a middling affair—stylish in bursts, but rarely as sharp as it wants to be. It leans hard on weirdness and sudden grotesque violence, though neither adds much weight. That said, there’s real flair in places: the bar scene flickers with manic tension, and the drug-fuelled chaos has a jarring energy that works. But the film can’t decide if it’s condemning or lionising its subject, painting Chopper as a deranged Ned Kelly with martyr vibes. It nods at big ideas—celebrity, myth-making—but they never quite land. The ending’s surprisingly reflective, but it’s a long road for a slight payoff.

Lamb is a unique blend of eerie folktale, rural deadpan comedy, and a dash of 'what the hell did I just watch?' It's a slow, sparse journey that takes itself very seriously—until it doesn't. The final act swerves into surreal territory, a blend of touching and daft that's sure to excite. Noomi Rapace's performance is a grounding force, even when things get woolly. It's not quite horror, not quite arthouse, but definitely Icelandic. Really looking forward to my trip to Iceland now... assuming I survive the sheep.

Tetsuo: The Iron Man is like being hit over the head with a scrap metal pipe—repeatedly—for 67 minutes. A Lynchian migraine of a movie, it’s gritty, grotesque, and filmed like someone strapped a 16mm camera to a blender. There’s barely a plot, just chaos: body horror turned up to 11, all sweat, wires and stop-motion squirming. Think Videodrome meets Eraserhead, spliced together with rusted bolts and psycho-sexual angst.

Shot in a Tokyo flat, it’s pure DIY punk—Tsukamoto doesn’t so much direct as detonate. It’s messy, angry, and kind of brilliant. Flesh merges with machine, guilt oozes from pores, and the soundtrack drills straight into your skull. The whole thing feels like a violent panic attack about identity in a mechanised world.

Not for the faint-hearted, and definitely not for everyone—but if you like your horror transgressive, experimental, and absolutely barking, this little metal monster is worth a watch.

A quiet, hypnotic goodbye to old cinemas and the people who haunt them. Goodbye, Dragon Inn barely has a plot, but that’s the point—it’s all mood, memory and missed chances. Slow, strange, and oddly moving. Like watching a dream fade just as you realise you’re in it.

Johnny Eager wants to be film noir, but MGM wraps it in so much studio gloss that it never feels real—just rigid and flat. Robert Taylor—matinée idol, not mobster—is miscast as the titular sociopath, and everything about the film feels over-polished and a bit too pleased with itself. It’s noir in theory, not in tone. The story’s decent (a fake crime, blackmail, and a doomed love affair) but buried under overwritten and over-explained dialogue, languid pacing, and a romance with Lana Turner that never quite convinces.

Van Heflin steals every scene as Johnny’s boozy conscience—witty, weird, and alive—and appears to be acting in a much scrappier, better film, absolutely deserving his Oscar.

This is noir without grit, crime without chaos—more matinée showcase than moral struggle. A stylish misfire, but a misfire all the same.

Since its 1992 release, Romper Stomper has been a film I’ve mostly avoided—and not without reason. I remember the outrage clearly: anti-fascist groups picketing cinemas, warning it could ‘give confidence to Nazis in Britain.’ Some argued it didn’t condemn the violence—it crowned the Nazis as the heroes. Grimly, those concerns proved valid. Zahid Mubarek’s murder by a racist psychopath who’d just watched the film still casts a long shadow.

It’s often lumped in with This is England, but the comparison only goes skin-deep. Meadows offers consequence and growth; Romper Stomper offers carnage and not much else. Is it a good film? Not particularly. It’s gritty, sure, but emotionally vacant. Russell Crowe’s Hando isn’t half as magnetic as he thinks he is (though there’s definitely some sweaty homoerotic tension). Jacqueline McKenzie shines, but her arc only exists when men are nearby. Brutal, loud, and shallow—more posture than point.

Layer Cake has all the hallmarks of a turn-of-the-millennium Brit-crime flick—gangsters, drugs, voiceover, and a plot that just about holds together. The only shock is that Danny Dyer doesn’t burst in shouting about respect. Vaughn lifts it a notch above the usual fare, mostly through sharp casting—Craig and Gambon, sure, but also blink-and-you’ll-miss-’em turns from Ben Whishaw and Sally Hawkins. It trots through all the expected locations: West London mews streets, nouveau-riche Essex mansions, flats drenched in the kind of non-descript neutral tones that summed up the 2000s, and of course, the Regency Cafe. Not exactly a riot, but slick enough. You’ve watched worse with a post-pub kebab on a Friday night.

Birdy is a curious beast. When it’s good, it’s terrific—tender, thoughtful, and surprisingly moving. But when it’s bad… well, it unintentionally flaps into the realm of the pretentious. Parker’s deadly seriousness gives us wistful staring, melodramatic voice-overs, Cage Rage™?, and Modine, starkers, bird-posing on the bed. Much of the humour feels accidental—Cage, in particular, seems adrift. Yet, as the film settles, the bond between the two men grounds it beautifully. It’s touching stuff, just too long. Trim 20 minutes and you’ve got a leaner, stronger film. As it stands, it hovers—but never quite soars.

A cracking slice of post-war noir that swaps fedoras for flatbeds, Thieves' Highway is one of the more distinctive entries in the genre. It's full of grit—both literal and emotional—and has a proper lived-in feel. The rickety truck sequences are pure anxiety fuel, like They Drive by Night on a death wish. Jules Dassin nails the tough lives of working people with empathy and style—no wonder HUAC came sniffing. Their loss. He’s now firmly on my shortlist of favourite directors. It’s tense, atmospheric, and packed with detail—something’s always moving, even when the plot slows. Properly gripping stuff.

The Hunger isn’t your average vampire flick—it’s a moody, seductive fever dream in fishnets and silk. Catherine Deneuve is dangerously divine, Bowie broods like no one else, and Sarandon turns sexual confusion into an art form. The plot? Minimal. The mood? Maximal.

Tony Scott’s debut is all smouldering glances, blood-stained elegance, and slow-motion cigarette lighting. Every frame looks like it’s about to pout and ask for a light. It’s dripping in style—darkwave clubs, high collars, velvet shadows—and yet it’s never just style for style’s sake.

This is a film about desire with a capital D. About the thrill of seduction, the ache of obsession, and what happens when love becomes possession. It’s also about addiction, decay, and the slow, sexy horror of getting precisely what you asked for—forever.

It won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but if you’re into erotic doom, gothic glam, and films that feel like a very slow kiss on the neck before a bite, you’ll swoon.

The Hunger is lusty, louche, and lethally cool. If looks could kill, this would be a mass grave in shoulder pads.

Final Destination: Bloodlines strays from the path of a typical horror film, playing more like a rogue health and safety video. The format’s familiar—a parade of unfortunate souls trying to dodge elaborate, gruesome deaths while Death lurks off-screen with a clipboard.

The prologue hints at promise, with surprising style and clarity. It sets high expectations with a well-executed suspense sequence and a focused narrative. But that promise quickly evaporates, and it’s as if a completely different director took over, resulting in a jarring shift in tone and quality. From there, it’s a whirlwind of chaos. The direction is haphazard, the framing peculiar, and most of the cast seem to have wandered in from entirely different films. Performances are lacklustre—half look glued to cue cards, while the rest are just guessing the tone.

The script spreads jokes evenly, but that only heightens the awkwardness. A few actors cope; others flounder. The end result? A school play with a body count. Editing is all quick cuts and awkward jolts that wreck the pacing. The sound’s no better—clumsy ADR slaps in dialogue like late homework. And although it’s the longest film in the series, it barrels ahead like it’s late for a flight, stuffing in every set piece and punchline with zero breathing room. Most disappointingly, it just isn’t scary. There are a few chuckles—mostly at how absurd things get—but not much else. It’s not a total disaster, but it’s not all that watchable either: a messy, confused entry with a high body count and low stakes.

In the end, Bloodlines isn’t a total disaster—it’s just aggressively mediocre. It’s not dreadful enough to be fun, not good enough to recommend. Just another Final Destination, coasting on franchise fumes and ticking boxes while forgetting why those boxes were scary in the first place. If this is the future of the series, someone needs to call time… before Death does.

Cul-de-Sac is a strange little beast—engrossing, offbeat, and often veering into theatrical overkill. It plays like a showreel for its actors more than an entirely focused film, with Donald Pleasence and Lionel Stander delivering strong, captivating performances in a bizarre, uneven power struggle. Pleasance tiptoes around conflict while Stander stomps through it, chewing every bit of scenery in sight. The film lingers too long, and the tension fizzles as it meanders, but it’s never dull. The isolated setting adds charm, and the whole thing plays out like a deranged French farce filtered through a bleak, windswept lens. Odd, but oddly entertaining.

The Last Boy Scout is a foul-mouthed fever dream of early-‘90s cynicism. It’s a scuzzy, sweaty buddy-action flick that hurls footballs, bullets, and one-liners with gleeful recklessness.

Bruce Willis delivers one of his most gloriously grim performances—chain-smoking, dead-eyed, and barely hanging on. The film is drenched in blood, sleaze, and explosive violence, skewering macho posturing even as it revels in its own bad habits. The plot? Forgettable. It’s just a loose excuse to keep the wisecracks flying and the bodies dropping.

The women? Sidelined symbols or punchlines—victims of the film’s unapologetic misogyny. The men? Washed-up relics clawing at some warped sense of honour with fists and bravado. It’s a brutally honest, stylish, nasty time capsule—full of snappy nastiness, equal parts self-loathing and swagger.

For all its sleaze and swagger, The Last Boy Scout isn’t just revelling in bad behaviour—it’s embalming it. It knows the world it’s portraying is rotten, and rather than fix it, it leans into the decay with a crooked grin and a smoking gun. There’s something oddly compelling in its unrepentant cynicism, like watching masculinity implode in slow motion to the sound of its own punchlines. It may be trash, but it’s knowingly, gloriously iconic trash.

Harvey is a whimsical gem with a slightly boozy charm and a giant invisible rabbit at its heart. James Stewart plays it all so straight, it becomes oddly moving, like he knows something the rest of us don’t. It’s gentle, silly, and quietly profound, wearing its madness like a well-tailored jacket. A film about being kind in a world obsessed with normalcy. Honestly, who wouldn’t want a six-foot-tall pooka as a drinking buddy?

Brother is a curious misfire from Kitano—his first (and last) stab at Hollywood. Transplanting Yakuza stoicism to L.A. should’ve been bold, but it mostly falls flat. It rehashes bits of Sonatine and borrows heavily from slicker ’90s crime flicks, but with none of the spark. The pace drags, the introspection feels forced, and it never quite knows what it wants to be. Still, the unexpected bromance between Kitano and Omar Epps is oddly endearing.