Film Reviews by griggs

The Hours is a beautifully acted, emotionally weighty film that just about earns its stripes, even if it’s a bit too neat for its own good. The anthology structure lets Daldry peel back the shiny veneer of three different decades, showing how society politely ignores its messier truths. Each woman—writer, housewife, professor—appears to have it all, yet none can honestly speak their mind. It’s striking how little progress is made, even as the world modernises. Most unsettling of all? Julianne Moore getting mansplained by a pre-schooler. It's not perfect, but there’s quiet power here. Proudly grown-up, it feels like the kind of film we don’t get anymore—pre-streamers dictating what we watch through their algorithms.

There’s no denying the beauty here — Raise the Red Lantern is a visual and emotional stunner: precise, claustrophobic, and quietly devastating. Gong Li is magnetic, the use of colour is spellbinding, and Zhang Yimou’s framing turns ritual into warfare.

Unfortunately, I had the misfortune of watching a version (not from Cinema Paradiso I hasten to say) that looked like it was transferred from worn-out Super 8 and subtitled by Google Translate on a bad day.

The film’s power still shone through, but the experience felt like viewing a masterpiece through frosted glass. This demands a proper rewatch. The film deserves it. And so do my eyeballs.

The Hidden feels like GTA had a lovechild with The X-Files—and somehow no one told me it existed. Seriously, how the hell had I not seen this before? Forget that—how had I never even heard of it? We’re talking flamethrowers, stolen Ferraris, body-snatching aliens, and more people getting mowed down than in Death Race 2000. On paper, it’s a standard buddy cop setup, but Kyle MacLachlan’s deadpan weirdo FBI agent elevates it into something far stranger. Fast, chaotic, and gloriously unhinged—this is pure ‘80s cult gold.  

The only thing that could’ve taken it to the next level? John Carpenter behind the camera, laying down a pulsing synth score while the chaos unfolds. The film already feels like it raided his toolkit—creepy alien menace, stoic antihero, apocalyptic vibes—so why not go full Carpenter and seal the deal?

La Femme Nikita is Luc Besson fulfilling his "Pygmalion-with-a-pistol" fetish. It’s slick, stylish, and occasionally brilliant—but let’s not pretend it’s feminist cinema. Nikita’s transformation from junkie to state assassin only “succeeds” once she can shoot a man and apply eyeliner. It’s less about empowerment, more about male fantasy: unruly women as wild things to be dressed up and broken in.

Strip away the gloss, and what’s left is more troubling. Besson flirts with themes of rebirth and control. Still, Nikita never really owns her narrative—she’s sculpted, surveilled, and shaped by others, including the camera. Even her romance feels like an assignment.

Yet it works—just. The pace zips, the set-pieces land, and there’s enough bite to stop it slipping into total style-over-substance. It’s fun, but faintly sour.

Rewatching Ghost Protocol ahead of Final Reckoning, and honestly? Still a blast. This is where the franchise stops moping and remembers it’s supposed to be fun. Brad Bird injects real energy—gadgets fail, plans unravel, and Cruise tries to outrun physics like he’s got something to prove. The Burj sequence? Still ridiculous. Still brilliant. The Kremlin caper is pure Brosnan-era Bond cheese, but somehow it works.

What really helps is the added levity—just enough to suggest even Cruise isn’t taking himself too seriously. It’s a welcome shift, and much-needed light relief after the grim intensity of MI:3. The plot’s daft, sure, but stylishly so. And for once, it actually feels like a team movie—not just Cruise and his tech guy.

It’s not flawless, but it’s the moment Mission: Impossible finds its rhythm. Confident, silly, stylish—and still ahead of most modern action fare.

The Housemaid is a foundational work of Korean cinema—a domestic thriller that begins as melodrama and steadily descends into something far more disturbing, none more so than mid-century misogyny. Kim Ki-young crafts a claustrophobic atmosphere with bold, expressionist visuals and theatrical performances that heighten the sense of dread. The home becomes a pressure cooker, where power dynamics twist and moral decay seeps through the walls.

It’s not a subtle film, but its psychological intensity and visual flair make it a compelling viewing. The style feels years ahead, with tight, almost voyeuristic camerawork amplifying the discomfort. Its impact on Korean cinema is enormous—you can trace its influence through Parasite, The Handmaiden, and beyond, especially in how it explores class, desire, and control within the domestic sphere.

Gripping, grotesque, and occasionally unhinged, The Housemaid still feels dangerous. A true original.

A Double Life is a tidy little noir with a clever conceit: an actor playing Othello begins to lose the line between role and reality. The film is decent if a touch stagey, but Ronald Colman’s performance is something else—utterly deserving of the Oscar. He shifts from charm to menace with unsettling ease, anchoring the film even when the pacing wobbles. A solid watch, but it’s Colman who makes it memorable.

Nicolas Cage continues his eccentric renaissance with The Surfer, a sun-scorched character study set on the jagged edge of Australia's coastline. Following in the footsteps of Mandy and Longlegs, Cage once again dives headfirst into the deep end—this time emerging with a performance that's both intense and oddly meditative. It's not flawless, but it's certainly never dull.

The film explores a man in crisis, and while its plotting occasionally dips into the murky waters of half-baked subplots and loose ends, there's still something captivating in its sun-drenched drift. What could have been a straightforward descent into midlife madness becomes a hazy fever dream—disjointed, yes, but occasionally electric.

Unsurprisingly, Cage is magnetic. Even when the material wobbles, his presence steadies the board. His performance is more subdued than expected, but it fits the film's existential funk. The supporting cast fares less well, with some chemistry-free scenes that stop the emotional tide in its tracks.

The Australian setting, while perhaps financially motivated, lends a strange, dreamy dislocation that, whether intentional or not, adds to the film's fractured identity. It's a story about a man adrift, and the scenery plays its part.

Director Lorcan Finnegan (Vivarium) doesn't always stick the landing. The pacing meanders, and some moments feel padded rather than profound. But there's a consistent visual elegance, and a few surreal flourishes that suggest a stronger film flickering beneath the surface.

Ultimately, The Surfer is a future cult midnight-movie with enough salt and sting to merit attention. Fans of Cage's more adventurous work will find a lot to chew on. It's not the wave he's going to ride to another Oscar nod—but it's one worth watching.

Gozu feels like Takeshi Miike took a yakuza flick, hired Jodorowsky as script editor, set it in Twin Peaks, dipped the whole thing in warm milk, and left it out to curdle. What begins as a straightforward job–disposing of an increasingly unhinged gangster–quickly spirals into a dreamlike descent into hell, complete with cow-headed demons, a lactating landlady, and the most traumatising rebirth science this side of Cronenberg.

Miike doesn’t just blur genre lines–he incinerates them. Horror, comedy, noir, and surrealist nightmare clash in a delirious stew that offers no explanations and zero closure. You’re either on board or completely adrift by the halfway mark. But that’s the fun: cinematic roulette, with Miike spinning the wheel while cackling behind the camera.

Is it brilliant? Maybe. Is it nonsense? Definitely. But it’s Miike’s kind of nonsense–unapologetically grotesque, hysterically unhinged, and oddly unforgettable.

After several false starts (none of them the film’s fault), I finally made it to the end of The Talented Mr Ripley—and I’m glad I did. Ripley deserves to be celebrated for its sumptuous atmosphere, moral ambiguity, and strong ensemble cast, even if the pacing occasionally drifts. It’s a sleek, unsettling film: all sun-kissed luxury concealing something far colder beneath. Damon’s blank intensity, Law’s golden-boy magnetism, and Paltrow’s slow-burn dread all hit the mark. Philip Seymour Hoffman steals scenes with greasy bravado, while Jack Davenport makes a sharp impression with little screen time.

At its core, this isn’t really about sexuality—it’s about obsession, envy, and the desperate construction of identity. Tom doesn’t just want Dickie’s life—he wants to be Dickie. The film captures that psychological slippage with unnerving elegance. The queerness is there, coded and side-eyed, but it feels like a by-product of warped yearning rather than a declaration. A richly textured, thought-provoking thriller that rewards repeat viewings… even if it took me five tries and a strong coffee to finally see it through.

I honestly don’t know how Trick ‘R Treat missed my Shocktober watchlist, but fate had other plans—I ended up watching it in May, thanks to Cinema Paradiso randomly sending it my way. What I got was a surprisingly fun and creepy Halloween anthology, with four interconnected tales unfolding over one gloriously spooky night. It strikes a neat balance between genuine scares and campy fun, never taking itself too seriously but still landing a few punches.

Anna Paquin, Brian Cox and Dylan Baker all turn in lively performances, clearly enjoying the film’s wicked sense of humour and grisly spirit. It’s the kind of ensemble that gives the whole thing a boost—even when the stories veer towards silly, the cast keep it grounded just enough.

The biggest shame? It never got a proper cinema release. This is the kind of film that should be seen on a big screen in October, surrounded by giggling horror fans and the rustle of popcorn. It’s not flawless, but it’s got real charm—and I’m already planning a rewatch when autumn rolls around.

The Terrorizers may predate Magnolia, Crash, Amores Perros and the whole fractured-narrative brigade, but Edward Yang got there first—and arguably did it better. A novelist, her collapsing marriage, a wayward teen, and a photographer all orbit each other in Taipei, their lives brushing past one another in quiet, unsettling ways. Unlike the bombast of later ensemble dramas, Yang keeps things clinical and composed—even at boiling point. Each frame is purposeful, each silence deliberate. His off-centre compositions demand that you really watch—not just the people, but the architecture, the city, the absence. Performances are cool, precise, but deeply affecting. The emotional wreckage is subtle, but devastating.

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.