Film Reviews by griggs

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.

Watched Poison at 3am when I couldn’t sleep—probably not the wisest choice. It’s bold, brash, and all a bit much when your brain’s half-mush. Some fascinating ideas and striking moments, though. I didn’t love it, but I’m curious enough to give it another go when I’m properly awake

I was quite excited about Apartment Zero, but it didn’t quite hit the mark for me. It felt like it was trying a bit too hard to seem deep—throwing in political twists that were very heavily foreshadowed, that ending up as a distraction from the juicy psychological drama I wanted more of. The slow pace had me checking my watch a few times; instead of being intriguing, it tipped into melodrama. Still, Colin Firth was fantastic as Adrian, perfectly twitchy and awkward, and Hart Bochner brought just enough charm and creepiness to keep things lively. Plus Dora Bryan and Liz Smith popped up adding some fun and eccentricity. Not amazing, but their performances made it worthwhile.

Solid little noir with a great sense of place—sweaty gyms, grimy streets, and a ticking clock that adds real tension. The boxing scenes pack a punch and the mood’s properly bleak. It’s not top-tier stuff, but at just over an hour, it doesn’t waste your time. Worth a watch.

Enemy is one of those films that’s more interesting than fun to watch. Gyllenhaal’s on great form (twice over), and Villeneuve’s direction is slick and moody as ever. I was into the whole theme of self-sabotage—how bad decisions come back to bite—but it’s definitely more of a thinker than a thriller. The final scene is meant to rattle you, but it didn’t do much for me, mainly because that kind of thing doesn’t freak me out. I know loads of people who’d hate it, though. It's not a bad watch; it's just not one I’d be in a hurry to revisit.

Hmmm… I’ve never quite got Bogdanovich. I’m still not convinced. Targets is a good idea—old-school horror legend (Karloff, doing his best with what he’s given) crosses paths with a modern-day, real-world killer—but it never quite lands. Karloff’s great, obviously, and there’s something poignant about him playing a man who knows he’s past it. But the rest? Bit of a slog, honestly. The sniper stuff should be tense, but it’s weirdly flat. And the script is dreadful—people talking like they’ve just learned how conversations work. It feels like Bogdanovich had something to say about violence and movies but got distracted by showing off how clever he is. It's not a total write-off, but I wouldn’t rush to watch it again.

Mauvais Sang made me feel cooler just for watching it—like I’d chain-smoked a Gauloises in a neon-lit alley while reciting poetry to nobody in particular. It’s moody, stylish, and occasionally baffling, but there’s real heart pulsing beneath all that noir-drenched angst. I loved Juliette Binoche smouldering on screen, and Julie Delpy has that effortlessly aloof charm that just works. And Dennis Lavant—my god, the man dances. That scene? Electric. I honestly think it should be a law: Lavant must dance in every film. Not just the ones he’s in—every film. The plot wobbles here and there, but the vibes? Impeccable.

Beyond the Black Rainbow postures as a reverent tribute to 1970s cult sci-fi, but quickly reveals itself as an exercise in imitation rather than inspiration. Instead of channelling the essence of THX 1138, Dark Star, Silent Running, or Solaris, it appears to lift entire stylistic elements wholesale, without understanding what made those films resonate. Though drenched in an icy 1980s aesthetic—with CRT fuzz, sterile corridors, and a heavy synth score—the film offers little more than visual mimicry. An early sequence cuts from Ronald Reagan archival footage to a suit carrier marked “Noriega,” a clumsy nod to the CIA-backed Panamanian dictator famously driven out by the sonic assault of Van Halen. Had this film’s soundtrack been used instead, he’d have surrendered within a day—not out of defeat, but sheer boredom.

Every scene fades to black before the next begins, as if grasping for meaning that never materialises. Characters barely exist, speaking in cryptic, stilted lines that suggest depth but carry none. The dialogue is not just bad—it’s empty. There is no plot to follow, no emotional core, and no real point beyond the surface-level visuals. What’s left is an art installation masquerading as cinema: flat, meaningless, pretentious.

I went into Chhaava knowing nothing about the history behind it, but I was pleasantly surprised—it’s a gripping, visually spectacular film. Clearly aiming for the same rousing energy as RRR, it doesn’t quite reach those heights. However, Vicky Kaushal delivers a commanding performance that wouldn’t feel out of place in an S.S. Rajamouli epic.

That said, the film has its issues. The pacing jumps forward in time with little warning, and if you miss the tiny on-screen text (easy when reading subtitles), you might get lost. A.R. Rahman’s score is grand but occasionally overwhelms the dialogue. And while the film insists it’s about freedom, not religion, there’s a clear nationalist undercurrent that feels in step with Modi-era politics.

One thing that truly shocked me was the sheer level of graphic violence. The battle scenes are unrelenting—swords slice through torsos, spears impale soldiers with sickening crunches, and arrows puncture throats in gruesome detail. Blood spurts in great arcs, and bodies pile up in the mud, some hacked apart or trampled underfoot. A ruthless execution scene lingers on the agony of a man being tortured—his tongue severed, his fingernail ripped off, and his back shredded with deep, bleeding wounds. The BBFC rating this a 15 feels surprisingly lenient, given how unflinching the film depicts carnage.

Despite these flaws, Chhaava is a thrilling watch—packed with action, drama, and spectacle. It may not be perfect, but it’s certainly unforgettable.