Film Reviews by griggs

The Raid kicks off like a gritty SWAT procedural—tight, tense, and full of promise. Those first 20 minutes had me hooked: strategic sweeps, creeping dread, a grounded sense of danger.

Then it flips the switch and turns into a martial arts showcase. Beautifully choreographed, yes—but once the realism gives way to relentless hand-to-hand carnage, it lost me a bit. The stakes blur, the tactics vanish, and it becomes all about the beatdowns. Impressive? Absolutely. Exhausting? A bit. It’s brutal, stylish, and undeniably well-made, but I preferred the claustrophobic tension to the flying fists.

What begins as a mission with purpose spirals into chaos, with no glory—just wreckage. It’s thrilling, yes—but behind the shattered bones and slick moves lies a bleak truth: sometimes survival is the only thing left to fight for.

Hail, Caesar! wants to be many things—noir, satire, musical, historical epic—but ends up being none of them. It lurches between tones, never quite deciding what it is. The Coens clearly know their Hollywood history, but the in-jokes are so niche that it sometimes feels like eavesdropping on someone else's nostalgia. The film flits between oddball sketches and a central character who's somehow both central and utterly forgettable.

There are moments of undeniable brilliance—the tap-dancing sailors, Clooney's goofball Roman—but they don't quite add up to a satisfying whole. You keep expecting a grand revelation, and then... the credits. It's not their worst (looking at you, The Ladykillers), but it's easily their laziest. In comparison to other Hollywood-reverence films like Once Upon a Time in Hollywood or Babylon, this one feels like a half-hearted effort.

What stings most is knowing what the Coens are capable of. These are the minds behind Fargo and No Country for Old Men—films that dance between tones with elegance and purpose. Hail, Caesar! feels like a half-remembered dream of those triumphs, a jumbled scrapbook of better ideas that never coalesce. It should have been a love letter to cinema, but instead plays like a hastily written email. Watching such talent tread water, content to riff without reason, is a deep sadness. The film ends, not with a bang, but a shrug—and you're left wondering what could've been if they'd just cared a little more, and weren't so proud of all the insider jokes they had planted in the script.

Black Dynamite is a loving, laugh-out-loud spoof of ‘70s Blaxploitation flicks, nailing everything from the funky soundtrack to the grainy visual style. Michael Jai White is a riot in the lead, and the one-liners come thick and fast. It’s sharp, silly, and clearly made with affection. That said, it does lose steam halfway through—the plot gets tangled in its own nonsense before rallying for a gloriously absurd finale. It's not perfect, but it's a lot of fun.

Few films manage to create an enduring impact with every viewing, but RRR achieves this with remarkable finesse. Watching RRR is unforgettable; a transcendent experience. The sheer scale and energy of the film left me awestruck, every moment magnified to near-mythic proportions.

RRR redefines what spectacle can be—visually stunning, emotionally gripping, and unapologetically bold. Its grandeur, with sweeping landscapes and meticulously choreographed action sequences, sets a new benchmark for cinematic spectacles. The film's boldness and grandeur are truly inspiring, and the juxtaposition of its painterly beauty with raw, visceral violence only deepens its impact. Beneath the dazzling surface lies a story with remarkable depth, anchored by characters whose unwavering convictions and intense struggles transform the film's outrageous set pieces into emotionally charged experiences.

Amidst the chaotic yet mesmerising action scenes, RRR beautifully balances contrasting emotions—humour, joy, and sorrow. This delicate interplay of emotions enriches the viewing experience, making it more than just a visual spectacle. Moments of laughter seamlessly intertwine with heart-wrenching scenes, creating a tapestry of resonating emotions that keep you engaged and emotionally invested.

RRR isn't just a film; it's an event, a celebration of what cinema can achieve when it dares to dream big.

Motel Destino is a sweaty, neon-drenched thriller soaked in sex, regret, and dodgy life choices. It’s a bit soap opera, a bit noir, and all heat. The pink filters, alongside deep purples and dirty yellows, give it a humid, sleazy vibe that absolutely works. While a bit hazy at times, the plot is engaging and keeps you hooked. I was particularly drawn in by the mood, the motel’s seedy personality, and the tangled mess of lust and betrayal. It’s stylish, messy, and oddly hypnotic. Not quite top-tier stuff, but I really enjoyed it. Feels like a fever dream with a broken air conditioner—and I mean that as a compliment.

This is Malick at his most abstract. The whole film feels like a perfume advert stretched into a feature. We follow Rick (Christian Bale), a screenwriter wandering through Los Angeles, surrounded by wealth, women, and parties, but emotionally empty. He’s not really living; just drifting, lost in memories, relationships, and voiceovers. The story doesn’t follow a linear plot. Instead, it’s made up of scattered moments, some beautiful, some baffling, like flipping through someone else’s dream journal and occasionally finding something that resonates.

The film is structured like a tarot reading, with each chapter and woman representing a different stage in Rick’s emotional and spiritual decline. It’s slow, repetitive, and often vague. Still, there’s something oddly mesmerising about it, especially if you’re willing to let it wash over you.

Interestingly, Malick didn’t direct a single film between Days of Heaven (1978) and The Thin Red Line (1998). At times, Knight of Cups feels like his way of processing that 20-year silence. Rick could easily be Malick himself: creatively blocked, spiritually lost, and trying to figure out what it all means. It’s not his strongest work, but it’s a fascinating look at someone searching for meaning in a world built on illusion.

In the end, Knight of Cups isn’t about Rick’s life so much as his inner landscape: a drifting, disconnected world of memories, regrets, and unanswered questions. It won’t work for everyone; it’s slow, elusive, and of a more emotional tone than a traditional film. But if you’re willing to meet it on its own terms, there’s something quietly powerful beneath the surface. Even in all the chaos and beauty, the search for meaning never stops.

Daybreak is a slow, smoky descent into regret. I struggled with it at first, but once I understood the structure and its aim, it started to click. Gabin still has that magnetic presence, but he’s more broken and bottled up here. He’s trapped in a room, emotionally and literally cornered, replaying how it all went wrong. It’s slower, more confined than Port of Shadows or Pépé le Moko, and less instantly gripping, but there’s a bleak beauty. The apartment feels like a tomb, the flashbacks like an ambush. The past creeps in like smoke through the cracks, and when morning finally comes, it’s not hope that arrives. It’s the inevitable.

Matewan is a gritty, slow-burn triumph about the brutal battle for workers’ rights in 1920s West Virginia. It’s one of the most powerful and honest films about class struggle, no melodrama, no preaching, just raw, carefully told storytelling that respects your intelligence.

Chris Cooper, in his debut, is outstanding, and the whole ensemble pulls its weight. There’s a real sense of community and tension throughout, with every character feeling lived-in. The film's handling of race, solidarity, and betrayal is impressively nuanced, never falling into cliché.

Haskell Wexler’s cinematography gives the film a dusty, almost mythical Western feel, making it feel grounded and legendary. The atmosphere he captures turns a small mining town into a battleground worthy of folklore.  

The fact that it’s based on real events, the Matewan Massacre, makes it all the more harrowing. There’s a quiet rage running through the film, and it builds to something truly unforgettable. This is top-tier historical drama.

25 years ago, my flatmate insisted Battle Royale was the pinnacle of Japanese cinema—not Kurosawa, not Ozu, but this. I thought he was being daft. School kids killing each other in an ultra-violent government game? No thanks. Had he explained who Takeshi Kitano was, I might’ve been more curious. Finally, watching it now, I certainly wouldn’t call it Japan’s cinematic peak, but I see why he loved it, not for the gore, but for what it says. A brutal, blood-soaked satire on failed systems, youth rebellion, and the madness of authority. He saw it as a scathing critique of capitalism. I saw Lord of the Flies with landmines. Turns out, we were both right. It’s part action-thriller, part sci-fi, part horror, and weirdly funny in places. The violence is intense, but there’s something clever under all the carnage. It's not high art, but it's a fascinating future-predicting pulp. Certainly more than just nonsense.

D.O.A. has a killer premise and a vibe that screams classic noir—sweaty desperation, shadows, and all. But the tone’s all over the place, the dialogue’s pure pulp, and some of the acting is downright criminal. It’s fun in that “accident you can’t look away from” way, and the pacing mostly clips along… until the wheels wobble. The ending feels like a get-out-of-jail-free card slapped on in a hurry. Not great, but not dull either.

Mission: Impossible III is probably the least interesting of the bunch, but it’s a massive step up from the overblown nonsense of M:I2. J.J. Abrams brings things back down to earth a bit, and Cruise is much more likeable this time. The plot’s not exactly gripping, and aside from Ving Rhames, the IMF team barely registers. That said, Philip Seymour Hoffman is fantastic—easily the best villain in the series. Decent action, dodgy story, solid enough watch.

The King of Marvin Gardens unfolds in the desolate, off-season sprawl of Atlantic City—a ghost town clinging to its own myth. The faded boardwalks and empty casinos aren't just scenery; they echo the characters' unravelling hopes. This slow, peculiar, and quietly potent film dives into the mess of family dysfunction, delusional ambition, and a business plan that feels like it was scribbled in a fever dream.

David, played with hushed discomfort by Jack Nicholson, is reluctantly dragged into his brother Jason's grand scheme to buy a tropical island and play Hawaiian Gatsby, minus the money, charm, or grip on reality. Bruce Dern is manic in the way only a man selling dreams he doesn't believe in can be. Ellen Burstyn floats through like someone who's emotionally left the building but forgot to pack her body. The plot unfolds at the speed of depression—but that's the point.

It bombed on release. Now it's a cult classic. Like all great tragedies, it's oddly funny—if you're in the mood to laugh into the void.

A sharp, slow-burn crime drama that rewards patience. It’s all quiet deals, shifting loyalties, and low-key tension—no big set pieces, just the steady hum of menace. The pacing is measured, and while the final act doesn’t quite hit emotionally, the film’s commitment to realism pays off. It captures the bleak, weary rhythm of criminal life with subtlety and restraint. A quietly powerful piece that leaves a lasting impression.

The ‘Burbs sets out to be a dark suburban comedy full of paranoia, conformity, and fear of the weirdo next door—but it never quite finds its footing. It flirts with satire—nosy neighbours, group hysteria, thinly veiled prejudice—but quickly swaps insight for pratfalls, yelling, and the kind of chaos that feels more exhausting than funny. The tone swings wildly, like the film itself can’t decide whether it wants to creep you out or crack you up.

Tom Hanks does his best, the poor guy, trying to anchor the madness with charm and exasperated dad energy. Meanwhile, the rest of the cast seems to be competing to see who can be the loudest, weirdest, or most cartoonish. Corey Feldman strolls through like he’s in his own movie—frankly, that might’ve been the better one.

In the end, The ‘Burbs is all noise and nervous energy—an overlong sketch in search of a punchline.

Mission: Impossible II is, without doubt, the weakest in the franchise. Tom Cruise slips back into his smarmy comfort zone, undoing the sharpness and charm of the first film. The plot’s thin, the dialogue clunky, and the romance angle feels forced. John Woo brings his trademark style—lots of slow motion, doves, and high-octane shootouts—with clear nods to his Hong Kong films, especially Hard Boiled, that just about saves it from being a total-let down. Not unwatchable, but a definite dip in quality compared to the rest.