Film Reviews by griggs

Deep Blue Sea is what happens when a B-movie pretends to be a science lesson. It’s half disaster flick, half creature feature, and entirely bonkers. The plot is ludicrous, the dialogue ropey, and the effects haven’t aged well—but it’s hard not to enjoy the chaos.

A proper time capsule of late-’60s counterculture noodling—early De Palma, early De Niro, and not much else unless you enjoy curios with more ambition than coherence.

The Train might sound like another overblown ‘60s WWII caper—Nazis, loot, explosions—but it’s far more grounded than its setup suggests. Frankenheimer steers this one with a grim realism that cuts against the genre’s usual heroics. There are derring-dos, but they’re undercut by a raw, almost documentary tone. The direction is extraordinary; the way people just wander into the frame from all angles, the sharp blocking, and the sheer physicality of the train all feel real. So much so you can smell the steam, grease and cordite.

It’s also a proper resistance story, not just in the plot but in how it resists the clichés around it. Frankenheimer, coming off The Manchurian Candidate and Seven Days in May, was deeply in his paranoia era—authority is dodgy, survival is messy, and nobody gets out clean. The Train shares that DNA but replaces political gamesmanship with soot and sabotage. It’s got brains, brawn, and just the right amount of bleakness.

Holy Cow is a uniquely French coming-of-age film that juggles death, grief, adolescence, and cheese with surprising charm. It’s quirky, heartfelt, and sometimes a bit odd, but good, entertaining fun.

I really wanted to like this more. It’s handsomely shot, and Quinn hurls himself into Zorba like he’s auditioning to play chaos itself. But beneath the plate-smashing and raki-soaked “wisdom,” it all feels a bit smug.

Quinn as a Greek icon? Classic Hollywood logic: “ethnic is ethnic.” Greek, Arab, Mongol—the Mexican is your guy. It’s a passionate performance, sure, but also a relic of a time when bravado beat authenticity—just like the dancing, choreographed solely for the film.

Then the story takes a turn—into sexual violence and cruelty—and Zorba’s charm curdles fast. He claims to stand above the villagers’ backward ways, but he’s not so different. The film doesn’t seem bothered. That’s the most telling part.

It wants to be profound, but I found it life-affirming as a “Live, Laugh, Love” decoration with a hangover.

I expected a blunt “racist cop vs Black gang” Blaxploitation story, but this hit harder and deeper—messier, more human, and far more interesting. It’s less about crime than about survival in a system designed to chew people up. Harlem’s being torn apart by mob control on one side and a mostly white police force on the other, with Black lives caught in the middle of a war that’s never really about them.

No one’s clean. Mattelli’s a crooked cop, but you can feel the wear and regret in him. Pope plays it straight, but his hands are tied by a system that doesn’t reward integrity. Harris is terrifying and tragic all at once—a man shaped by brutality. The film doesn’t judge, and neither does the city—it just lays out the human wreckage.

And Harlem itself? A central character to the film itself. Collapsing, one brick at a time. Sirens, sweat, Womack’s funk—it all seeps in. A brutal and honest film.

There’s flair to burn here—a textbook case of style over substance—and the debt to The Warriors, The 10th Victim, and a stack of cult classics is paraded with smug pride. The Hall of Mirrors shootout shamelessly lifts from Welles’ The Lady from Shanghai, but at least it does it with some flair.

But the geography? Utter nonsense. One minute, we’re at Lincoln Centre; the next, we’re apparently teleporting to the Oculus, probably via Narnia. Then the PATH moonlights as the A train without any effort put into trying to disguise it? In a city that is this iconic, that’s not just lazy—it’s insulting. It’s like when a London bus to Hackney is filmed on a suburban street in Catford, hoping no one notices.

I went into Sinners knowing very little—on purpose. Just that Michael B. Jordan pulls double duty (which seems to be the trend this year—De Niro and Pattinson are at it, too), so I was surprised to find, put simply, that it’s a vampire film. But, of course, it’s not that simple. Instead, it’s a chaotic blend of crime, horror, and thrills, drenched in sweat, superstition, and the ghost of Robert Johnson’s meeting the devil at the crossroads.

The music drives everything—rhythmic, pulsing, and escalating like a heartbeat on the run. The first act is sluggish and generic, but it builds—gets wilder, faster, and much more fun. Once the action kicks off, it barely pauses for breath, making the entire first half feel irrelevant—as if we have been spoonfed a bum steer for an hour about the nature of the film.

However, as the story unfolded, I wished it tapped more into African vampire mythology, like Ganja & Hess, but it sticks pretty faithfully to the Euro-gothic rulebook.

It’s not perfect, but if you like your horror loud, loose, and a little unhinged, it’s worth a go.

A pretty perfect film, this. Gritty, grimy, and soaked in that ‘70s NYC grime—you can smell the sweat, smoke, and subway stench, and none of it’s pleasant. The plot might be a stretch, but the film’s so grounded you start believing every second of it. The dialogue crackles, the pace never lets up, and the cast is spot-on. You feel wedged right there in the carriage. Absolutely brilliant.

Given some of the reviews I’d seen—and that I know nothing about Minecraft beyond its mining and crafting—I wasn’t expecting too much. But I approached it as any other Jack Black film, but set in a blocky cartoon world, and I honestly had fun. Sure, there are lots of Minecraft in-jokes that my fellow audience found hysterical and went straight over my head, but there was still plenty to enjoy. Jack Black’s doing his usual chaotic hero thing, and it works. The animation is bright and kinetic, and while the plot is pretty standard save-the-world stuff, it doesn’t drag. It’s not the kind of film I’ll be thinking about tomorrow, and it’s clearly made for Minecraft fans first—but as a casual viewer, I was perfectly entertained for 90 minutes. Honestly, it could’ve been a lot worse. Blocky nonsense, but enjoyable blocky nonsense.

A strange, spiky film that straddles deadpan comedy and full-blown nihilism—often within the same scene. Elliott Gould is brilliantly blank, drifting through a collapsing world where nothing makes sense and no one seems to care. It’s absurd, dark, and often hilarious. Not everything lands—some parts are wildly outdated and cross a line—but the chaos is weirdly magnetic. Donald Sutherland comes dangerously close to stealing the whole film with one of the most unhinged, hilarious wedding speeches you’ll ever see. A proper ‘what was that?’ kind of film—in the best way.

When this was released, it probably felt fresh—amnesiac assassins and all—but time hasn’t been entirely kind. These days, that premise feels a bit… well-trodden. Still, there’s plenty to enjoy. Geena Davis is in full feminist icon mode, riding high off Thelma & Louise and A League of Their Own. She absolutely owns it. It’s criminal (literally and figuratively) that this ended up being her last leading role. Since then, she’s been stuck fighting the patriarchy off-screen instead.

Samuel L. Jackson, fresh off Pulp Fiction, is clearly having the time of his life. Playing the loveable underdog is a total 180°, but he nails it—scrappy, sharp, and full of swagger. No wonder this is his favourite of his own films to watch. Their odd-couple chemistry is the secret weapon, even when the script goes full bananas in the third act. Messy?

Absolutely. But it’s a blast. A proper late-night watch—and a cracking Christmas double-bill with Die Hard.

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.