Film Reviews by griggs

You’re thrown in at the deep end with La Ciénaga—no setup, no backstory, just a languid mess of bodies, booze and blood. It’s like turning up late to a family gathering where everyone’s had one too many, and the air’s thick with old grudges and heatstroke. The camera drifts through this bourgeois purgatory, where everyone’s either injured or on their way to being so. Cuts, bruises, mysterious ailments—half the film feels like a waiting room montage, and the Virgin Mary pops up just often enough to make you think someone might be praying for an escape. It’s disorientating initially, but the more you piece it together, the more hypnotic it becomes. Everyone’s wilting, physically and emotionally, and no one seems capable of stepping in to help. The real scar tissue isn’t what’s visible—it’s the slow rot in the family itself. A challenging watch but a quietly brilliant one.

A compelling noir centred on a cop and a criminal who share a childhood background but have taken very different paths. Robert Siodmak directs with assurance, creating a moody, atmospheric piece full of tension. Victor Mature gives a more nuanced performance than usual, while Richard Conte strikes a perfect balance between charisma and menace. Shelley Winters makes a memorable mid-film appearance, stealing her scene with ease. The final speech from Mature feels slightly contrived, but that’s a small flaw in an otherwise well-crafted and gripping crime drama. Cry of the City is a fine example of the genre.

Williams and De Niro (method dialled to max) are brilliant, but Awakenings feels oddly lightweight for its heavy subject. Penny Marshall’s trademark soft-touch direction—charming in the ’80s—feels out of place here the performances from the two leads the only thing that stops it becoming a Hallmark melodrama. It’s watchable, sure, but a bit too fluffy for modern sensibilities. A curious mismatch of style and story.

Predator is a unique blend of war film, slasher, and sci-fi survival horror, all wrapped in ‘80s machismo. Arnie, at his prime, is exactly what you’d expect—gruff, muscly, and caked in mud. The creature design still impresses, even alongside today’s CGI, and the jungle setting adds real atmosphere. It has its daft moments, but there’s something compelling about watching the team get picked off by an invisible alien. Beneath all the action and bravado, it’s a solid, entertaining film that delivers exactly what it sets out to do.

The Notorious Bettie Page is precisely the kind of film you’d expect from Mary Harron. Who better to give voice and agency to one of the most recognisable faces of the 20th century? Page’s image has been endlessly—and continues to be—replicated, exploited, fetishised and sold. Still, this film focuses on her reasons for being in front of the camera, her faith, her boundaries, and her quiet confidence. Gretchen Mol is splendid in the lead, portraying Bettie not as a victim but as a woman who made her own choices, even when those around her didn’t understand them. One moment that struck me was how she wasn’t even allowed to speak at the Senate hearings investigating pornography—her forced silence speaks volumes. My only gripe is that the film doesn’t go into her later life. Bettie struggled with severe mental health issues and, as a result, became reclusive for decades. I wish we’d seen more of that journey. Without the brief coda at the end, we learn very little of what Bettie Page actually thought and even less of what had been her ambition and goals.

I’ll admit I had high hopes for Croupier—a cool, smart British film set in the gritty London of my late teenage years, a city I loved, but that’s since vanished. And to be fair, the plot is clever and hooked me early on. There’s a slick, noir-ish vibe that’s easy to settle into, and Clive Owen absolutely looks the part. But while the script has its flaws, it’s the direction that really lets the film down. The pacing drags, and there’s a cold, clinical detachment to everything, making it almost impossible to connect with any character. You’re kept at arm’s length, which drains the film of tension and emotional weight.

Kiss of Death is OK. However, it certainly didn’t wow me. The plot’s solid, and Widmark’s unhinged performance steals the show, but it drags in places and feels a bit stiff overall. Classic noir vibes, but there’s nothing here I hadn’t seen before. It's worth a watch but certainly isn’t essential viewing.

If Husbands is the hangover and A Woman Under the Influence is the breakdown, Faces is the brutal midnight honesty—when the party's over, the lights are on, and you're forced to look at yourself.

If Pride had been dreamt up by a screenwriter, no studio in their right mind would’ve backed it—striking miners and queer activists teaming up to fight Thatcher? Come off it. But because it’s rooted in truth, it’s got a real bite. I found it a solidly good romp, banging jukebox soundtrack and just enough political heft to give it weight—Section 28, police harassment, the AIDS crisis all get a look-in, but also a keen eye for the minor political issues. It’s full of heart, even if the casting lets it down; for a film so full of Welsh characters, there are far too many English actors with wobbly accents. Thoroughly good fun.

The Selfish Giant is an interesting watch—gritty, heartfelt, and beautifully shot, with powerful performances from its young leads. There’s a rawness to it that feels authentic, and the friendship at its centre is touching in that bruised, kitchen-sink way. But as much as I wanted to be moved, something about it felt a bit… manipulative. Like it knew exactly how to push the poverty-porn buttons. It lingers on the hardship in a way that sometimes feels more exploitative than empathetic. I admired the craft, but I left it feeling more wrung out than enriched. Worth seeing, but not life-changing.

The Wanderers definitely isn’t perfect—some moments felt awkward and dated, especially that uncomfortable racist word battle, which made me cringe more than once. But if I look past those issues, there’s plenty here to enjoy, particularly as a lively jukebox film with echoes of American Graffiti and The Last Picture Show. It nailed the nostalgic beats for me, nicely capturing teenage friendships, rivalries, and classic coming-of-age drama. I could sense the director’s genuine fondness for his 60s youth, balanced with a welcome dash of 70s/80s grit. Sure, it’s uneven, occasionally clumsy, and won’t win prizes for subtlety, but the cracking soundtrack alone kept me hooked. If, like me, you’re partial to movies that whisk you back to a slightly romanticised past, you could do far worse than spending an evening with this one. Imperfect, yes, but undeniably good fun.

Baise-Moi is, frankly, dreadful. Years ago, I had a flatmate who was obsessed with it—I’ve never understood why. Even setting aside the sex and violence, what remains is a shoddy mess: it looks and sounds like an early 2000s daytime soap, complete with a dreadful soundtrack and incidental music and performances that barely convince. The direction is apathetic at best. Cinema Paradiso’s copy is an old DVD still bearing the BBFC’s cuts, not the restored Arrow Edition so perhaps the visuals suffered there—but even Arrow’s restoration can’t polish this particular turd. Yes, the sexual violence still shocks, mainly due to how casually it’s presented. But in the near quarter-century since its release, the film’s once-infamous brutality has been easily surpassed—leaving Baise-Moi exposed as little more than a provocateur with nothing to say. It appears the only reason this film exists is to annoy and piss off the censors—it’s neither exciting, titillating, nor remotely captivating.

What a film. It’s raw, heartfelt, and unexpectedly tender. Mickey Rourke's character, all battered pride and broken dreams, is a reflection of our own struggles, clinging to past glory while life keeps kicking him in the ribs. The themes of faded stardom, loneliness, and defiance really hit home. It’s not flashy, but it’s utterly gripping. Quietly devastating. I loved it.

The Last Showgirl plays like an unofficial remake of The Wrestler, swapping the blood and sweat of the ring for the sequins and spotlight of Vegas. Both films follow ageing performers—past their prime, clinging to fading identities—wrestling (pun intended) with obscurity, regret, and the desperate need to feel seen. Pamela Anderson's turn as Shelly echoes Mickey Rourke's Randy "The Ram"—not just in character, but in career. Both actors bring the weight of their public personas, blurred and bruised, to deliver raw, redemptive performances.

The film itself? It's a solid, humanistic take on female ageing, but what truly sets it apart is its clear feminist lens. It's engaging enough, though the ending lands with a bit of an "Oh… that's it?". The film lacks resolution in its conclusion and throughout, as several scenes and characters feel abandoned, seemingly sacrificed for a shorter runtime. It often feels like a longer, more refined film was chopped up in the editing suite, leaving behind unresolved fragments. A co-worker tearfully bangs on Shelly's door in the middle of the night, only to be turned away with no follow-up, leaving an emotional thread dangling. Then there's Jamie Lee Curtis' indulgent, unexplained Bonnie Tyler dance routine: an act of rebellion? A sign of desperation? Or just there to fill time?

What truly elevates the film above its script is the cast. Pamela Anderson's performance is not just magnetic; it's transformative. She becomes Shelly in a way that blurs the lines between character and actor. Dave Bautista's performance, though quiet, is reverential and a departure from his previous roles. Jamie Lee Curtis adds a touch of comic relief and makes the most of her limited screen time.

With this performance, Pamela Anderson has shown a new side of her acting abilities. This could mark a new chapter for her onscreen, a promising future having reclaimed her personal narrative, just as Shelly fights to reclaim hers.

Evolution left me weirdly hooked and a bit confused. It’s a slow, creepy watch—really striking to look at, but it keeps things pretty vague. I liked the eerie vibe and all the strange, squirmy moments, though it did get a bit frustrating. Classic Hadžihalilovic—answers not included.