Film Reviews by griggs

Not the sleazy romp you’d expect from a film with Roger Corman’s name attached—this is softer, sadder, and far more human. Ben Gazzara’s Jack Flowers is a small-time wheeler-dealer in 1970s Singapore, running a brothel with the weary charm of a man who’s seen too much and expects little more. He’s open to everyone, at home anywhere, but somehow unknowable—there’s a big hurt buried deep, and he keeps it hidden like a photo in his wallet.

The film’s heart isn’t in the trade, but in Jack’s unexpectedly moving friendship with Denholm Elliott’s uptight British auditor. Two lonely men, wary at first, surprised by how much they see in each other. Their shared scenes are tender and understated, full of sidelong glances and emotional restraint.

It meanders, yes—but there’s richness in the haze: CIA shadows, colonial rot, sweating walls, and a city on the cusp of sanitisation. A humid character study with just enough bite to cut through the malaise.

A paraplegic man and a telepathic helper monkey locked in a psychological power struggle might sound like schlock. Still, George A. Romero plays it straight—and that’s half the fun. Monkey Shines isn’t a great film, but it’s a surprisingly earnest one, wrapped in ’80s B-movie packaging with flashes of something darker underneath.

The early sections, focused on loss and adaptation, are genuinely moving. Jason Beghe does solid work as the lead, and the film’s central relationship—between man and monkey—is equal parts touching and unnerving. Once the horror kicks in, it’s part creature feature, part Freudian freak-out, with Romero mining suspense from surgical scalpels and simian stares.

Tonally, it’s all over the place: heartfelt one minute, utterly daft the next. But something is appealing in its awkward sincerity. You can sense Romero trying to elevate the pulp, even if it never quite comes together. Messy, odd, and occasionally gripping—just don’t expect Dawn of the Dead.

A scruffy outsider walks into a room full of puffed-up idiots and mutters “idiots”—that’s the basic rhythm of Sanjuro, and it never stops being funny. Mifune doesn’t just play the role; he prowls through it like a man deeply fed up with being a Samurai, but also, surrounded by, yes, idiots. He scratches, scowls and sighs his way across a plot full of honourable speeches and incompetent plans, being left to save the day.

This ronin, doesn’t just break the rules—he acts like he’s already played the game before. It’s practically meta: he moves through Kurosawa’s samurai verse like a player who’s read the manual, spotting twists and traps long before the young, sword-waving idiots do.

The story’s fine—schemes, standoffs, betrayal—but the pleasure’s in the dynamic. Every time the idealists puff up with righteousness, Sanjuro deflates them with a shrug and a muttered insult. It’s tight, stylish, and slyly hilarious. A film where the hero fights for the cause… while clearly thinking the cause is full of idiots.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always loved this movie. Not liked—loved. Watching it again, it still hits like a gunshot in a quiet room. The music, the rhythm, the voice in your ear telling you how it really worked—that was the magic. The long walk through the Copacabana’s kitchen? That wasn’t just showing off. That was status. That was power. That was everything.

Scorsese doesn’t film scenes—he moves through them, like he’s got a guy waiting outside. Every shot has heat, swagger, a little paranoia baked in. You feel you’re in on it, right up until the moment you’re not.

Ray Liotta’s performance is full of that wide-eyed ruse. The coke years still sweat off the screen. Pesci? A pitbull with a grudge. De Niro? Ice cold.

You know the story ends badly. You know the house of cards fail. But it never stops being seductive. That’s what makes it dangerous. And unforgettable.

I was pleasantly surprised by Superman. My only real reference point is the 1978 film, so the whole “Justice Gang” and multiple metahumans caught me off guard. The film assumes lots of prior knowledge, which felt a bit much.

That said, Rachel Brosnahan does a cracking job channeling Margot Kidder—she is Lois Lane. Corenswet isn’t Christopher Reeves (who is?), but he more than holds his own.

Nicholas Hoult is solid as Lex Luthor, but not nearly dastardly enough for my tasst—just another slick comic-book baddie. The flying dog baffled me, and Lois already knowing Clark’s identity took some of the fun out of it for me.

The flying scenes genuinely soar, but much of the rest feels slapped together. The CGI is patchy—impressive when Superman flies, ropey when he’s not. The editing is awkward on, with scenes cutting off mid-flow, especially during fight sequences, as if someone panicked about the run time.

There’s a better film trying to get out. It never quite takes off-but it’s still fun, messy and very daft.

The Last Movie is a wild one—proper mad. Hopper takes this great idea about a film crew shooting a Western in Peru, then ditches the plot halfway and dives headfirst into chaos. It’s like watching the making of Apocalypse Now before Apocalypse Now was made, only scrappier and even more stoned out of its mind.

The whole “locals start making their own version of the film” bit is genius, but it leans hard into that cringey first-world gaze—like, look at these ‘primitive’ people play-acting. It’s patronising, even if they seem to be having way more fun than the Americans melting down around them. Hopper’s direction is all over the place, but kind of hypnotic. The cast drifts in and out—but the real star is the editing: jumpy, messy, but weirdly perfect. It’d make a cracking double-bill with Alex Cox’s Walker. Not flawless, but fascinating, especially if you like your films a bit feral.

New York’s not just a backdrop here—it’s a third lead, grimy, wearing last night’s sweat like war paint, the kind of city where ambition curdles fast. Susan Seidelman shoots the dying days of the punk scene with the cracked energy of someone who’s lived it—no sheen, no sentimentality. Just grit, fumes and disappointment.

Wren, played with feral charm by Susan Berman, is a walking collage of borrowed cool and survival instinct. She wants fame—or at least to be near it—but the dream’s already expired, peeling like posters on a lamppost. She’s hard to root for, and that’s the point. She’s not selling out; there’s nothing left to sell. Richard Hell drifts through like a ghost of what might’ve been, but it’s the city that steals it—burning, buzzing, broken.

The whole film feels like a bruised mixtape: DIY, off-key, strangely compelling. Not a punk anthem, but maybe the B-side you keep coming back to.

Achingly beautiful, but not exactly brisk. The alpine vistas do much of the emotional heavy lifting, as we follow one man's moral stand against facism—and the long, slow consequences of it. The heart of the story is in the letters exchanged between husband and wife, read aloud in gentle voiceover—full of faith, longing, and the ache of absence.

It's intimate and moving, even if the film takes its sweet time getting anywhere. You admire the conviction on screen, and the filmmaker's too—but sometimes you wish both would pick up the pace. A film about conscience, yes, but also endurance—yours as much as the chatacters'. Stick with it, though, and there are moments that flicker with quiet power—small illuminations in the stillness.

Sun dappled, deceptively simple, and razor-sharp, this is Rohmer at his most merciless. Everyone’s on holiday, but no one’s relaxed—least of all the adults who lie with alarming ease to preserve their egos. Pauline—a teenager—sees straight through it. There’s sex, yes, but it’s the conversations that are the real seductions—flirtations with truth, half-truths, and whatever makes you feel better. Rohmer’s gift is letting people talk long enough to expose themselves. It’s funny, gently melancholic, and somehow weightier than it seems. You come for the beach. You stay for the moral autopsies.

Days is so still, you might wonder if the disc has frozen. But no—its just Tsai Ming-Iain’s inviting you to sit, breathe, and stew in the silence. The long takes border on the hypnotic, though occasionally they drift into the soporific. It’s a tender film, full of small gestures and aching loneliness, culminating in a moment of human contact that’s quietly devasting. That said, the minimalism can feel more like an endurance test than enlightenment. I admired its patience more than I felt its puls. Meditative, yes—but perhaps a little too much incense and not enough fire.

Strange on the Third Floor has a reputation as “the first film noir.” But I’m not convinced that makes it essential viewing. It’s more a fever dream of Dutch angles, expressionistic lighting and overwrought acting than a fully formed thriller. Peter Lorre finally appear—with silent menace—in the last 10 minutes, and suddenly it feels like a real film. Shame, then, that the rest of it is so stiff. The leads are acting so much as clawing through the script, and the dialogue doesn’t help. It’s a curiosity, not a classic—worth watching if you love noir history, but not much more.

Bleak, raw, and unexpectedly poetic, this one punches far above its weight. What starts as a kitchen-sink drama curdles into something more anarchic, more tragic—a cry of pain dressed in denim and punk. The performances are ferociously good, especially from Linda Manz, whose defiant snarl masks something heartbreakingly fragile. Hopper directs like he’s exorcising demons, with jagged energy and flashes of grace. It’s about broken families, shattered innocence, and the kind of damage that gets passed down like bad furniture. Not an easy watch, but a necessary one. You don’t just see the wreckage—you feel the impact.

Assault on Precinct 13 isn’t just a film—it’s a rite of passage for cinema fans. Made on a shoestring budget and powered by pure nerve, Carpenter’s urban cool Western turns a forgotten police station into ground zero for apocalyptic cool. The synth score alone deserves its own fan club. There’s barely any plot, barely a budget, and barely any dialogue—but somehow it’s electric. Every frame hums with menace, attitude, and outsider energy. It’s Rio Bravo reimagined by someone who worships Howard Hawks, George Romero, and dirty ‘70s LA. Low on gloss, high on myth—this is DIY legend-making at its finest.

Every time I rewatch The Third Man, I half wish I could forget it just to experience that entrance, that zither, that reveal, all over again. It’s a film soaked in postwar paranoia and rain-slick shadows, where even the Ferris wheel feels menacing. Cotten plays confusion beautifully, and Welles looms large off screen—charming, corrupt, and chilling. Reed’s direction is razor-sharp, twisting Vienna into a haunted maze of cobbled lies. It’s the rare thriller that’s as clever with its visuals as it is with its dialogue. Honestly, if you’ve not seen it, I envy you. And if you have—watch it again, and again.

Taxi Driver grabs you by the collar and drags you through a neon-lit hellscape of insomnia, alienation, and urban rot. De Niro’s Travis Bickle is both a ticking time bomb and a mirror held up to a sick society—equal parts pathetic and petrifying. Scorsese directs like a man possessed, making every frame drip with menace and madness. The city breathes, festers, and pulses with threat. And Bernard Herrrman’s final score? A sleazy lullaby for the damned. It’s not just a descent into darkness—it’s a guided tour. You come out changed. Or at least, you should be worried if you don’t.