Film Reviews by griggs

Memoir of a Snail is a beautifully crafted, emotionally wrenching animation that pushes the boundaries of what we expect from the medium. I can handle bleakness, but this is just unrelenting sadness, which is hard to process as our brains aren’t wired for this kind of anguish in animation. The visuals are stunning, and the score is beautiful. The final moments offer a sliver of redemption, but the weight of it all lingers like a punch to the gut.

Cruising is a film tangled in controversy and confusion. It flirts with being a thriller but never fully commits, leaving the plot disjointed and hesitant. In trying not to offend, it often does just that. Pacino holds it together, even when everything else threatens to fall apart. That said, there’s something hilariously unforgettable about Pacino in an interrogation room getting slapped by a near-naked bloke in a cowboy hat while everyone else acts like it’s just another day at the office.

I was recently asked to put together a programme of cult films for a local indie cinema. It didn’t come to anything, but the first film on my list was The Warriors.

 This is a proper urban odyssey—Homer by way of the New York subway. The gang’s journey from the Bronx to Coney Island (a route now steeped in cinematic legend) still feels like nothing else. Stylised, surreal, and strangely hypnotic, it’s one of those films that sticks in your brain long after the credits roll.

 When The Warriors aired on Moviedrome nearly 30 years ago, it caused a proper stir. Everyone at college was talking about it the next day. It felt raw, mythic, and utterly unique—a film that turned late-night TV into something close to a communal event.

 Having just returned from New York—jet-lagged and slightly ruined by the city’s endless subway stairs (seriously, New York, ever heard of escalators?)—I felt the urge to revisit it, especially after walking through Riverside Park, where that iconic gang conclave scene was filmed.

 Out of tiredness, I watched it on a streaming service this time rather than digging out my copy. Maybe it was my sleep-deprived brain, but it felt like a different cut altogether. The DJ narrator, usually the film’s framing device, barely showed up. And the soundtrack, once dripping with style, felt oddly muted—pared back to the bare bones. The magic was still there but dulled. Still, The Warriors remains firmly in cult classic territory.

It’s not as violent as you’d expect—it’s more about atmosphere, style, and that mythic sense of survival. There’s a gritty glamour to it that UK audiences have always lapped up. The idea of gangs in matching outfits prowling a city that never sleeps? Exotic, strange, and weirdly cool.

But watching it now, nearly 50 years on—and fresh off the actual subway, which has barely changed—it loses some of that otherworldly sheen. What once felt like a fever dream now hits closer to reality. Still, for all its flaws, it’s a film with swagger and still iconic.

One-Eyed Jacks is a real oddity—but an oddly enjoyable one. The only film Brando ever directed (after both Peckinpah and Kubrick left the project), it’s a mixed bag. Some scenes feel choppy or strangely paced, and you can tell the editing room had a field day trimming what was originally a five-hour epic. Still, it’s great fun. The visuals are gorgeous—those delays waiting for the perfect Big Sur waves clearly paid off—and by the end, I honestly wished that full five-hour cut still existed. Sadly, it’s lost to time.

 Brando’s performance is the real draw. He didn’t live like an 1880’s bank robber for six months, but you’d believe it. Every gesture is so natural it’s almost hypnotic. This is the place if you want to see the Method in all its raw, magnetic glory. Although, when he and Malden had to act drunk? They just got drunk. A flawed gem—but a gem all the same.

Vagabond opens with the lifeless body of a young woman lying in a ditch. From there, Agnès Varda unspools her final weeks in fragments—through strangers’ memories, passing encounters, and a shifting sense of truth. It’s raw, poetic, and quietly devastating.

 Mona, played with brutal honesty by Sandrine Bonnaire, is a drifter. One woman remarks, “She’s got character. She knows what she wants.” For much of the film, that seems spot on. Mona is defiant, free, and almost untouchable in her disdain for convention. She crashes through fields and lives with equal disregard. Women admire her for it—see in her a freedom they’ve denied themselves. Men, meanwhile, either try to dominate her or push her away, frightened by her refusal to play nice.

 But the strength we see starts to crack. Her pride weakens. Her smile fades. Independence isn’t enough when the world refuses to make room for you. Mona exists on the fringes—present but always peripheral.

 It’s a quietly shattering watch. Varda captures not just a life but the space a person leaves behind. There is no sentimentality, no false redemption—just the harsh poetry of a life unravelled. This is Varda at her most potent, weaving rage, empathy, and beauty into something unforgettable.

Every great director has an off day, and Heart of Glass feels like Herzog’s. The idea of hypnotised actors is interesting in theory, but it makes everything feel slow and lifeless in practice. Unsurprisingly, the characters seem stuck, like they’re sleepwalking through a film where very little happens for long stretches. The actors can’t follow direction, talk to inanimate objects for extended periods, and often ignore other characters or events unfolding around them. It’s an interesting experiment but, ultimately, a curious misfire from a brilliant filmmaker.

The End tries hard to be profound but ends up lost in its own seriousness. It’s beautifully shot and has moments that nearly work, but they’re buried under layers of self-indulgence. There’s a great film somewhere, but it never entirely breaks through.

Santosh is a thoughtful and serious film that tells an important story about justice, corruption, and gender in modern India. It’s beautifully shot and clearly made with care and purpose, and there’s no doubt it’s a powerful piece of art. The performances are strong, especially from the lead, and the quiet tone gives it a certain weight. That said, it’s not the easiest film to watch—slow in places, and not especially entertaining in the usual sense. Still, it feels like a story that needed to be told, and one that leaves you mulling it over long after it’s finished.

Laapataa Ladies starts with promise—newlywed brides accidentally swap on a train, setting up a tale with shades of Shakespearean comedy and farce. But somewhere along the line, it loses its way. The film skirts around arranged marriage, neither criticising nor celebrating it, which feels like a missed opportunity.

Tonally, it tries to be both whimsical and socially aware but never fully commits to either. The pacing drags in the middle, and while there are moments of charm, the film plays it far too safe.

That said, Chhaya Kadam—recently in All We Imagine as Light—utterly steals the show. Her scenes are the film’s emotional anchor and leave you wishing it was more about her.

Not bad by any means, just not as bold or sharp as it could’ve been. I was left slightly disappointed, expecting something that packed more punch than this polite misadventure.

Atom Egoyan’s Exotica is a quietly mesmerising puzzle, piecing together stories of grief and loss through layers of melancholic intrigue. Its subtle brilliance lies in how delicately it approaches closure—hinting rather than shouting—capturing you with an understated sadness. The final act is astonishing, with threads you barely noticed suddenly tightening into a moment of genuine revelation. It’s the kind of film that creeps up on you slowly, rewarding your patience with richly textured characters and scenes charged with tension. Haunting and moving, it’s ambiguous enough to keep your head spinning long after it ends.

As an ex-cycling journo who once chased the peloton, Louis Malle’s Vive La Tour is an absolute gem of cycling nostalgia. We always bang on about how the Tour evolves year after year, but Malle’s documentary charmingly shows it’s barely changed at all, doping in particular has always been an issue. Sure, roadside cognac pit-stops are history, and café owners no longer fret about depleted booze supplies, but witnessing these iconic riders—in vivid colour—tackle legendary raids is genuinely thrilling. It’s fascinating to watch cycling legends brought to life in such detail, perfectly capturing the raw spirit, drama, and eccentricity that still defines cycling’s greatest race today.

Razorback is a solid slice of Aussie creature-feature fun, featuring a gigantic killer boar terrorising people in the dusty outback. It captures that '80s fascination with rugged Australian charm—think Crocodile Dundee mania and Saturday night TV staple The Flying Doctors. Visually, it's surprisingly stylish, with neon-lit outback shots and an ace synth soundtrack. It certainly didn't trouble any awards juries, but it's genuinely entertaining if you're after some cult movie thrills. A proper guilty pleasure.

The Namesake started off with promise but left me a bit cold. The family’s early struggles in New York were brushed over far too quickly, which made the migrant experience feel oddly minimised. It seemed more interested in showcasing Kal Penn—probably the most familiar face for American audiences—than giving proper space to Irrfan Khan and Tabu, both brilliant actors but sidelined. I kept wanting more from their story, more depth, more feeling. It’s not a bad film by any means, but it felt like it had something richer under the surface that never entirely made it to the screen.

Based on Arielle Holmes’ real-life journals—and starring Holmes herself—Heave Knows What plunges into the frantic, unromantic life of a young heroin addict navigating love, addiction, and the city’s indifference. The plot is loose, more loop than line, echoing the instability of Harley’s world.

Holmes is a revelation: raw, unschooled, but impossible to ignore. Her performance isn’t “acted” in any traditional sense—it’s lived. Caleb Landry Jones also turns up the chaos as Ilya, a twitchy, violent vortex of emotion and ego. The film’s handheld camera style and synth-laced score ratchet the tension to near-unbearable levels.

It’s not enjoyable. It’s not meant to be. But it’s magnetic. The Safdies don’t explain or moralise—they just immerse. And in doing so, they capture a New York that most filmmakers wouldn’t dare look in the eye.

I vividly remember Waterworld being labelled a colossal flop upon its release, savaged by critics and held up as an example of Hollywood excess. That reputation lingered for years—but it wasn’t exactly true. Despite its astronomical budget, the film made back its money at the box office, and more still through DVD sales, TV rights, and streaming. In recent years, especially following the Mad Max reboot, it’s undergone a quiet reassessment. Once a Hollywood punchline, it’s now gained a cult following and deserves some credit for its ambition, scale, and commitment to practical effects.

Dreamed up as “Mad Max at sea,” the premise is gloriously absurd: the oceans have swallowed the Earth, dry land is a rumour, and Kevin Costner plays a brooding, mutant drifter with gills. The story features sea battles, jet-ski chases, and a makeshift family dynamic that just about holds together.

What really stands out is how it was made. Shot largely on open water off the coast of Hawaii, the production used enormous floating sets and minimal CGI—a rarity even then, and almost unthinkable now. You can really feel the world’s weight and texture. Costner’s performance is often stiff, the direction uneven, and the script forgettable—but Dennis Hopper’s gleeful villainy keeps it entertaining. It’s messy, but oddly enjoyable.