Film Reviews by griggs

Drop starts promisingly enough, but it quickly runs out of steam. The second act is a slog—just the same argument on repeat, like a broken record bumping into itself. No one on a date would actually stick around for this nonsense. The final ten minutes go full bananas (kind of fun, I’ll admit), but by then, the damage is done. Meghann Fahy is the one saving grace, grounding it all with a performance far better than the script deserves.

Spring Breakers has plenty of ambition, but it’s a messy ride. On the surface, it’s all bikinis, booze, and bad decisions, but dig a little deeper, and there’s something genuinely dangerous lurking. It clearly wants to point the finger at the debauched American Dream. Yet, it misses by a long mark, ending up glamorising misogyny, toxic masculinity, and violence. Franco is properly terrifying as Alien, but even the Pussy Riot-inspired costumes can’t save the film’s confused message.

Santa Sangre is a gloriously demented circus of trauma, control, and religious rot. Jodorowsky throws everything at the wall — blood, elephants, armless mothers — and somehow, most of it sticks. The film’s symbolism is a proper Gen-X fever dream: growing up broken, realising your idols are frauds, and trying (badly) to claw your way free. It’s Psycho on a punk acid trip.

The circus imagery nails the feeling of life being an endless, grotesque performance, and the whole mother-son dynamic is pure, undistilled nightmare fuel. It’s messy, no doubt, and occasionally too up itself to land a real punch, but when it works, it’s unforgettable. Despite all the surreal madness, this is probably Jodorowsky's most accessible—the emotional through-line (trauma, control, liberation) is surprisingly clear under the chaos.

It's not quite a masterpiece, but it's definitely a one-of-a-kind experience. It's worth it if you like your films strange, sad, and a little bit stabby.

It is a sumptuous and beautiful film, but I can't help but think that Uber Eats would have been easier. Who’s doing all the washing up?

A Scanner Darkly is an odd but intriguing one—digitally shot then animated, giving it a woozy, off-kilter feel that suits the drug-fuelled paranoia. Without the raw footage, it’s hard to say what rotoscoping adds, but it definitely gives things a surreal edge. The story grips in parts, though it does drift. But the real issue? Linklater casting that Alex Jones again, even before his notoriety. It’s a baffling choice that totally breaks the spell.

Paprika is an absolute visual feast — even if, at times, I hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on. It’s a beautiful, chaotic, mind-bending plunge into dreams and identity, bursting with imagination in every frame. The animation is incredible, full of surreal shifts and strange details that keep you hooked even when the plot slips out of reach. You can see how it’s shaped plenty of later live-action films — and I’m not just talking about Inception! A confusing but brilliant ride.

A strange, haunting watch. The plot’s simple enough, but it’s really the style that defines it—like flipping through a psychedelic Art Nouveau picture book set to jazz. Some of the slow pans are pretty striking, though they start to drag after a while. With so little dialogue or narrative drive, it becomes a bit of a slog—especially with subtitles competing for attention against the intense, surreal imagery. You’re always likely to miss something. Grotesque and more unsettling than sexy.

A delightfully strange bit of animation. The story’s straightforward enough, but it’s told with such surreal flair it feels like gatecrashing someone else’s cheese dream — the kind where everything creaks, groans, and moves just a bit too oddly. There’s barely any dialogue, but you hardly notice. The film speaks through sound, music, and the kind of visual detail that only comes from full-blown obsession. It’s eccentric, deadpan, and somehow weirdly moving.

The Plague Dogs, based on Richard Adams’ novel (yes, the Watership Down guy—cheers for the childhood trauma), is a relentless gut-punch of a film. Bleak doesn’t begin to cover it. The misery piles on, and just when you think it can’t get darker, it does. The animation, while beautiful, is rough and grimy, matching the tone perfectly. It’s powerful, sure, but exhausting. It's not something I’d watch again in a hurry. Three stars for bravery, not enjoyability.

Whenever I think I've found the Ghibli film—one of those big ones everyone raves about—I end up deflated. Princess Mononoke looks incredible, and its world is rich, but I just didn't connect with it. The themes and creatures are strong and stunning, but something about the pacing and characters kept me at arm's length. I wanted to love it, honestly. Other than My Neighbor Totoro, maybe I'm just not on Ghibli's wavelength.

Loving Vincent is a feast for the eyes—every frame is oil on canvas, lovingly and beautifully animated. It’s a shame the story doesn’t live up to the visuals. The characters feel flat, and the plot stumbles along like a cutscene from a computer game—gorgeous but emotionally vacant.

Whilst Ne Zha 2 has become the highest-grossing animated film of all time, this first instalment is a real mixed bag. It’s overlong, yet weirdly feels like big narrative chunks are missing. Some plot points are spoon-fed, others had me frantically googling Taoist mythology just to follow the action.

 The film tries to mimic a Hollywood-style animation—fast pace, high joke rate, emotional arcs on cue—but the humour doesn’t always translate, with some lines landing awkwardly or coming off a bit tone-deaf in English.

There’s clearly an effort to present a global calling card for Chinese animation. But in aiming to be everything for everyone, it blurs its cultural edges. Instead of confidently owning its roots, it feels like it’s pitching for global approval.

The Congress is a wild, heady blend of sci-fi and showbiz satire, like Mulholland Drive had a psychedelic baby with Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Robin Wright sells her digital likeness to a studio, spiralling into an animated dreamscape of identity, alienation, and commodification. A decade ahead of its time, it eerily predicts today’s AI-fuelled battles over actors’ rights. I’m glad I watched it—but for all its ambition, it’s a beautiful mess that never quite coheres—an intriguing curio in Hollywood’s digital hall of mirrors.

The Last Unicorn feels like something I must have seen as a child, tucked away in some dusty corner of memory. It’s a strong example of 1980s animation, from a time when anything animated was supposedly suitable for children of all ages — full of magic, sorcery, menace, peril, and jeopardy. It also carries some very dated ideas, especially in the old witch: a classic sexist portrayal, all warts, bitterness, and ugliness. This film is exactly the sort of thing that gave me nightmares as a kid, and honestly, I’m not sure I enjoyed it much more as an adult.

Chico and Rita is an absolute treat. The music and animation work together so beautifully that for long stretches words aren’t even needed—you just get swept along by the rhythm and emotion. The animation is exquisite, full of little details that bring 1940s Havana and New York to life. It’s a gorgeous love story, told through movement, colour, and song. Honestly, you have to wonder why more people haven’t seen this. It’s a proper hidden gem.