Film Reviews by griggs

Quiet, tense, and hypnotic—Sex, Lies and Videotape is all about repressed desire and the mess we make when we can’t say what we really want. Four people orbiting intimacy but paralysed by shame, secrets, and emotional inertia. The performances simmer, never shout, and Soderbergh keeps it bare and claustrophobic. Desire sits just beneath the surface—but no one can reach for it without breaking everything.

A really riveting watch. Spotlight keeps a tight grip on the tension without ever sensationalising its subject. It’s clearly taking notes from All the President’s Men—same steady pacing, same shoe-leather journalism vibe, and it works a treat. That said, the cinematography sometimes felt slightly unsure of itself as if it didn’t quite know whether to disappear into the background or try something more stylised.

Felt like drifting through someone else’s daydreams—occasionally striking, often baffling. The time-loop premise hooked me, but the emotional core didn’t quite land. Parts reminded me of Frankenheimer’s paranoia trilogy, particularly Seconds—fractured identity, scrambled memory, existential dread, but with more sighing, Gauloises, and time blobs. Resnais internalises the paranoia, making it hazier and more intimate. A fascinating concept, uneven in execution.

A clever, boozy meditation on midlife ennui with just the right mix of chaos and melancholy. Mikkelsen is brilliant—watching him unravel, hold it together, and then unravel again is oddly moving. The setup’s daft on paper (maintain a constant low-level state of inebriety to improve life?). Still, the film takes it seriously and forces us to do so, too—perhaps they have found the answer? It shifts gears between tragic and euphoric without feeling forced. Not all the emotional beats hit, but that final dance? Pure cinematic catharsis.

Absolutely brutal and unlike any war film I’ve ever seen. Warfare doesn’t bother with camaraderie or character arcs—it just drags you headfirst through chaos and collapse. No speeches, no lessons, no hope. Just the sick churn of violence on repeat. Garland strips it all back, showing war not as a test of character but a complete annihilation of it. It’s cold, clinical, and weirdly hypnotic. The sound design is incredible—relentless and immersive, like the world’s ending one explosion at a time. I was gripped. It’s the kind of film that doesn’t want you to feel anything noble—just to sit there and reckon with the horror. Honestly, it’s a testament to the film’s power that most who see this will leave shaken, if not genuinely traumatised

I braced myself for a twee overload, but Penguin Lessons won me over. I had expected it would be all fluff and waddles, but it certainly has more backbone than expected. Surprisingly, whilst it doesn’t dig too far into Argentina’s Junta horrors, it gives just enough to anchor the film into such a traumatic period. Coogan nails the washed-up Brit soul-searching in exile. And yes, the penguin works—saving Coogan from himself and his past. Unexpectedly poignant, with more heft than its premise or trailers suggest. Delightfully surprising stuff.

Jannings nails the slow crumble of dignity, and the cinematography is extraordinary even by today’s standards, but that tacked-on ending? Feels like a classic case of old-school studio meddling. Back when every film had to have a happily-ever-after, no matter how grim the story got.

Earnest, beautifully shot and heartfelt, Into the Wild captures the allure of escape but sometimes feels too self-serious for its own good, leaning on self-mythologising. Emile Hirsch gives it his all, but Penn’s direction sometimes drifts into ponderous territory, allowing the film to meander more than it inspires. Still, it undeniably affecting places.

A quietly devastating drama that starts strong but loses its way in the middle. The second act really drags—like wading through grief with lead boots—and I began to check out. The third act brings some much-needed energy, but it’s such a sharp left turn it borders on unbelievable. It feels like a different film after all that raw, grounded emotion. That said, Sissy Spacek is quietly ferocious, and the much-missed Tom Wilkinson is magnetic—even if his accent does wander. Their performances are the anchor here, pulling you into their pain. Flawed, but there’s something in it that stays with you.

Birth is eerie, elegant, and just a bit bonkers. Glazer directs with icy precision—long takes, hushed dialogue, and a camera that drifts like a ghost. Mood takes precedence over plot, wrapping you in grief and dread until reality starts to blur. Kidman is quietly mesmerising, and the whole thing feels like a dream you only half-remember but can’t shake. It doesn’t always land, but when it does, it’s properly haunting.

Bleak and beautiful, Black Dog lingers in the dust of a soul-starved desert town. The harsh, unforgiving landscape mirrors its loner protagonist—both worn down, both shut off. But as walls crack, so does the terrain. What starts as stark isolation slowly softens into something unexpectedly tender. Quietly mesmerising.

Total Recall is a gloriously over-the-top sci-fi that thrives on its gritty, tactile world. The practical effects are next-level—chunky sets, wild prosthetics, and costumes that feel worn rather than designed. It makes today’s CGI-heavy blockbusters look sterile by comparison. There’s a real argument this could be the peak of effects-driven filmmaking. Arnie does what Arnie does: brilliant when blasting baddies, less convincing when trying to deliver a heartfelt line. Still, it’s endlessly watchable.

Le Doulos had me from frame one—hooked, locked in, and loving every shady second. This is French New Wave so effortlessly cool; it makes classic Hollywood noir feel like it’s trying too hard. Melville doesn’t just tell a story; he builds a labyrinth where every character is a cypher, and every conversation is a potential double-cross. It demands total attention. Blink, and you’re lost. But that focus means the film’s visual style sneaks up on you—gorgeous, shadow-drenched, and razor-sharp–with no time to comprehend what you have seen until the movie ends.

Belmondo oozes charisma, but the whole cast crackles. Reservoir Dogs, The Usual Suspects, and Heat pull from this cold-blooded template. And that ending? Pure noir poetry. It flips everything on its head and dares you to watch it again.

Melville’s masterpiece feels like noir’s evolution—less jazz hands, more psychological warfare. It’s slick, stylish, and devastating. If you’re serious about crime cinema, this one’s non-negotiable.

Scarface is a cracking slice of Prohibition-era chaos—surprisingly brutal, even by today’s standards. For a film that barely shows a drop of blood, it still manages to leave you reeling with implied violence and ruthless energy. Paul Muni’s a livewire, chewing up the screen as a gangster on the rise, and Hawks directs like he’s got dynamite in his back pocket. The action zips along, and the body count stacks up without having to spell it out. But those moralising interludes—weird, preachy fourth wall breaks that suck the life out of the film—are an early symptom of the Hays Code, which demanded changes tacked on to condemn gangsterism and forced a different ending. A shame, really, as those changes convinced me to hang up my Tommy gun and go straight—now I just do white-collar crime like everyone else. 

Two-Lane Blacktop is a cult classic that plays like a slow, meditative drift through a fading America, a cinematic time capsule—lonely, stripped down, and oddly beautiful. Dialogue is sparse, almost awkward, and the soundtrack is essentially absent. Instead, the roar of the engines carries the mood, pulsing through every frame like a heartbeat. It’s often grouped with Easy Rider, Vanishing Point, and Electra Glide in Blue, but this one’s quieter, colder, and more distant. A film that doesn’t explain itself—and doesn’t care if you get it or not.