Film Reviews by griggs

The Congress is a wild, heady blend of sci-fi and showbiz satire, like Mulholland Drive had a psychedelic baby with Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Robin Wright sells her digital likeness to a studio, spiralling into an animated dreamscape of identity, alienation, and commodification. A decade ahead of its time, it eerily predicts today’s AI-fuelled battles over actors’ rights. I’m glad I watched it—but for all its ambition, it’s a beautiful mess that never quite coheres—an intriguing curio in Hollywood’s digital hall of mirrors.

The Last Unicorn feels like something I must have seen as a child, tucked away in some dusty corner of memory. It’s a strong example of 1980s animation, from a time when anything animated was supposedly suitable for children of all ages — full of magic, sorcery, menace, peril, and jeopardy. It also carries some very dated ideas, especially in the old witch: a classic sexist portrayal, all warts, bitterness, and ugliness. This film is exactly the sort of thing that gave me nightmares as a kid, and honestly, I’m not sure I enjoyed it much more as an adult.

Chico and Rita is an absolute treat. The music and animation work together so beautifully that for long stretches words aren’t even needed—you just get swept along by the rhythm and emotion. The animation is exquisite, full of little details that bring 1940s Havana and New York to life. It’s a gorgeous love story, told through movement, colour, and song. Honestly, you have to wonder why more people haven’t seen this. It’s a proper hidden gem.

I didn’t expect to enjoy The Adventures of Prince Achmed. I struggle with both silent and animated films, so put the two together in a film which is nearly a century old, and it sounded like a challenging watch. But how wrong I was. It’s absolutely dazzling. The silhouette animation might look simple by today’s standards, but it’s surprisingly expressive. You get genuine emotion from these flat, shadowy figures, which feel like magic. The craftsmanship is awe-inspiring—each movement is deliberate and elegant. I found myself far more drawn in than I expected. For something I thought might feel like a chore, it swept me up with ease. An unexpected delight from start to finish.

I've heard the complaints—it's just a 90-minute toy ad that rips off The Matrix. Maybe, but here's the thing: I didn't enjoy The Matrix and never liked Lego (even as a kid), but I loved this. The joke rate is off the scale—with a constant stream of witty, self-aware, and satirical jokes. The film is clever, heartfelt, and, most importantly, it's endlessly fun. It's one of the funniest films I've seen in years. Everything is awesome, and I'm not embarrassed to say so.

Robot goes feral and starts a commune—oddly touching, slightly unsettling, and proof that even robots can have an existential crisis. Stunning.

The Breadwinner is a beautifully animated, quietly powerful tale that sticks with you. It’s got real emotional heft but never tips into sentimentality. The story centred on Parvana—a girl who disguises herself as a boy to support her family in Taliban-ruled Kabul—is told with heart and grit. It respects its audience, young and old, without sugarcoating—a moving, haunting gem of a film.

Soul was a film that surprised me. It's not your typical Pixar movie, but rather the jazz-loving, older cousin of Inside Out, dealing with existential questions. I initially thought it was a children's film, but it sparked deep thoughts about my life choices. The film is visually stunning, as expected, and has that classic Pixar heart, with some genuinely funny moments. However, what truly stood out was its unique ability to prompt personal reflection. It struck me quietly and thoughtfully, leaving me with a lot to ponder.

Anomalisa is a quietly devastating gem—equally inspired, heart-breaking and darkly funny. Only Charlie Kaufman could turn stop-motion puppets into something so painfully human. It’s a bleak, beautiful look at loneliness and disconnection, with moments of surprising tenderness. The attention to detail is staggering, and the voice work nails it. A proper showcase of Kaufman’s genius—funny, sad, and oddly unforgettable.

Beautifully bleak and darkly funny—like a hug from someone who just told you their tragic life story and then farted nervously.

Persepolis tells a powerful story with a striking style, even if it doesn’t quite hit every emotional beat. Given Iran’s regime and its harsh crackdowns on dissenting filmmakers, it’s clear why animation was the only option. It’s bold, personal, and political—if a touch heavy-handed in places.

My Life as a Courgette is a tender, melancholic stop-motion that surprises with its heartfelt portrayal of its oddly shaped characters. Released before Memoir of a Snail, it’s now easy to see why comparisons were made—both films explore sadness with a light but steady hand. The storytelling, with its straightforward yet effective approach, leaves a deep emotional imprint. It didn’t knock me sideways, but I felt quietly moved and admired its delicate treatment of difficult themes.

Visually striking and tackles an important subject with guts and originality. The animated format really stands out, and it’s an inventive way to explore trauma and memory. That said, I didn’t always feel emotionally drawn in. It’s the kind of film you’re glad exists, even if it doesn’t fully connect with you. Interesting and important, but not something I’d rush to watch again.

What makes When the Wind Blows so quietly devastating isn’t just the subject matter—it’s the fact that it comes from Raymond Briggs, better known for cosy, child-friendly tales like The Snowman. That contrast is hard to get your head around. It taps into nuclear dread—that paralysing fear of annihilation we try to keep buried. But here, it’s filtered through twee domesticity and blind faith in government advice. Back then, the couple’s trust might’ve seemed touching. Now, it feels like satire. Naive. And yet, that’s the point. Watching them faff around with paper bags and doors is almost funny—until it isn’t. The emotional gut punch is how slowly things unravel. No big explosions, just quiet, creeping horror. It’s heartbreaking, surreal, and still painfully relevant. A grim reminder that good intentions and stiff-upper-lip routines won’t save you when the worst actually happens.

Unlike Threads, which traumatised an entire generation (my class who were forced to watch it at school included) with its brutal, documentary-style depiction of nuclear fallout, When the Wind Blows takes a gentler—though no less harrowing—approach. Where Threads is all raw panic and societal collapse, When the Wind Blows narrows the lens, focusing on one elderly couple fumbling through civil defence leaflets with heartbreaking optimism. Threads shows you the breakdown of everything. When the Wind Blows shows you what it feels like to keep calm and carry on while the world ends quietly around you. One is a howl, the other a sigh—but both leave you shaken to the core.

Visually stunning and unmistakably Wes Anderson, Isle of Dogs is like a lost Kurosawa film remade by a meticulous hipster taxidermist with a canine fixation—gorgeous to look at but emotionally neutered.Visually stunning and unmistakably Wes Anderson, Isle of Dogs is like a lost Kurosawa film remade by a meticulous hipster taxidermist with a canine fixation—gorgeous to look at but emotionally neutered.