Film Reviews by griggs

Woman in the Dunes had me mesmerised and uneasy. Its hypnotic pull was so intense that I felt like I was suffocating along with the characters. It’s one of the few films ever to impact my dreams, leaving me with a sense of intrigue and curiosity. All night, I felt like I had sand all over me and kept tossing and turning to shake it off.

Yasujiro Ozu’s Good Morning was my first time seeing one of his films in colour, and the vibrant hues immediately felt like a fresh lens on his familiar world. The landscapes and signature camera angles were quintessentially Ozu, grounding the film in his unmistakable style. But the lighthearted, almost mischievous dialogue, filled with witty banter and playful teasing, had me doing a double take—was this the same Ozu who gave us such profound, reflective dramas?

This playful story, poking fun at post-war consumerism through the antics of a small suburban community, brought plenty of smiles and even a few laugh-out-loud moments. The contrast with Ozu’s usual depth was striking, making it a charming and endearing watch that shows another side of his talent. A delightful detour in his filmography that I’m glad I took.

The Face of Another is a haunting morality tale that delves deep into the realms of identity and alienation. While it may not grip you as tightly as Seconds, or weave poetry as beautifully as Eyes Without a Face, or haunt you as profoundly as Persona ts philosophical musings have a lingering effect, stimulating the intellect. The mask motif, reminiscent of Japanese Noh theatre, adds layers of eeriness. It’s unsettling, thought-provoking, and beautifully strange.

Kaneto Shindo’s The Naked Island is a beautifully shot and creative look at the daily struggles of a family living on a tiny, remote island in Japan, whose survival depends on rowing to the mainland, collecting water from a well, and rowing back, a tough, exhausting routine that feels almost Sisyphean in its relentlessness, told with a documentary feel and entirely without dialogue. In fact, you need to keep reminding yourself that this isn’t a documentary but a work of fiction.

One of the film’s standout scenes occurs when the family goes to town to sell the fish the boys have caught. Here, they are the fish out of water, particularly when they stop to watch television through a shop window, a striking moment highlighting the gulf between their isolated, traditional way of life and the modern world. Given their way of life, moments like these remind you that this isn’t some film about an ancient way of life but set within living memory.

While much of the film relies on repetition and rhythm, its shocking ending delivers an emotional gut punch. When tragedy strikes and death disrupts their carefully maintained balance, the plot finally comes into focus, revealing the depth of the family's resilience and sorrow. The impact of this moment is heightened by the film’s earlier quietness and restraint, making it all the more devastating.

The onscreen activity is so mesmerising that I almost didn’t notice the lack of dialogue. With a hauntingly modern score, the film creates a hypnotic and profoundly immersive atmosphere. It’s a striking piece of cinema.

Mikio Naruse’s Yearning is my first encounter with his work, which was thoroughly enjoyable. The film feels like a warm nod to Ozu, capturing the rhythms of everyday life and the weight of emotional struggles. It shares that quiet, kitchen-sink drama sensibility (if you ignore the Western influenced use of a musical soundtrack). However, compared to Ozu it carries a bit more energy with Naruse’s use of multiple cameras, fluid actor movement, shorter scenes, and varied locations. The story of love, loss, and duty is simple yet moving, anchored by Hideko Takamine’s outstanding performance, full of warmth and depth. While it may not have the polish or profundity of Ozu’s masterpieces, its straightforward approach has a comforting charm. It’s Ozu-lite: not too heavy, not too fluffy, and more than compelling enough to hold your attention.

Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Monster is a thought-provoking and intricately crafted drama that feels like a gentle nod to Kurosawa’s Rashomon. The film unfolds through multiple perspectives, each revealing fragments of a larger story. While the non-linear timeline in the first half might feel disjointed, what initially seems like a gimmick soon proves essential. As the pieces click into place, you realise this structure mirrors the characters’ struggle to make sense of their own truths.

What makes Monster truly special is its empathy. Kore-eda shows us that everyone has their own version of events, but the courage to share that version, knowing it might be misunderstood, is where the real strength lies. Beautifully shot, with a subtle yet haunting score, the film keeps you hooked until the final, deeply satisfying moments. It’s not just a story—it’s an experience that rewards patience and reflection. Highly recommended for fans of thoughtful, layered storytelling.

Drive My Car is a beautifully meditative ride, but occasionally, it felt like it took the scenic route.

Only Angels Have Wings opens with a promising start, hinting at an exciting narrative. The first 15 minutes are filled with potential, but unfortunately, the story loses its momentum, with only a few tense flight scenes adding any real drama. Cary Grant's presence is undeniable, but his character's coldness makes it hard to invest emotionally. Jean Arthur brings some charm as the love interest, but her role feels half-baked, added as an afterthought. Her scenes with Grant lack real chemistry, and the romance feels tacked on. While the film hints at big emotions, it never really follows through, leaving it flat and quite dull overall.

Performance is a wild, kaleidoscopic exploration of identity, power, and decadence. Mick Jagger’s enigmatic Turner blurs the lines between rock star persona and character in a way that feels both natural and surreal. James Fox is equally impressive, shedding his polished, upper-class image to deliver a tightly wound, transformative performance as Chas, a violent gangster spiralling into an existential crisis. The film’s fragmented narrative is complemented by its use of psychedelic visuals, which create an immersive and intoxicating atmosphere. However, it sometimes prioritises style over clarity, making the experience more disorienting than cohesive.

Infinity Pool is a fascinating yet frustrating watch. Brandon Cronenberg’s lack of a distinct voice leaves this feeling like a pastiche of his father’s work. The premise is intriguing, but the repetitive second and third acts sap the film of tension and fresh ideas, making it feel overlong and undercooked. Mia Goth delivers another captivating performance, but the film’s structural failings make her performance feel overcooked. Despite its flaws, there’s an undeniable curiosity to Cronenberg’s approach, and while this one doesn’t fully land, I’m intrigued to see where he takes his craft next.

A wild, grotesque ride bursting with style and smarts. Michael Gambon is outrageously incredible, devouring every scene. Not for the faint-hearted, but impossible to look away—brilliantly mad and utterly unforgettable.

Matt Dillon looks too clean-cut for a guy drowning in booze and failure. Where is the mess: sweat, blood, puke and everything in between? It all feels too polished.

Bringing Out the Dead is brilliant—easily Scorsese's most underrated film. Why is it so difficult to get a copy of this? It deserves to be talked about as much as Taxi Driver. Once again, Scorsese and Paul Schrader dive deep into the gritty, sleepless underbelly of New York City, but this time through the eyes of an exhausted paramedic, played by Nicolas Cage in one of his most mesmerising performances. Cage is raw, gripping, and utterly real, capturing the mental unravelling of a man haunted by those he couldn't save.

 The film's energy is relentless, pulsing with the chaos and despair of the city that never sleeps. The neon-soaked cinematography and relentless editing pull you right into the madness, making you feel like you're right there on the streets of New York. It's a shame this gem isn't more accessible because it's the kind of movie that should be considered an all-time classic. Scorsese, Schrader, and Cage are a perfect storm here. Seek it out and immerse yourself in this cinematic experience.

Days of Heaven is a visual marvel, boasting painterly cinematography and extraordinary use of natural lighting. The unforgettable locust scene is a standout, with close-ups of the swarming insects showcasing their eerie beauty, followed by chaotic shots from their perspective as panicked farmhands scramble to eradicate them. It’s a brilliant mix of tension and artistry, but such moments are rare. The story feels thin and emotionally distant, more a canvas for the visuals than a compelling narrative. I’d eagerly awaited to see this film, but Malick’s focus on beauty ultimately prioritises prettification over substance, which left me slightly disappointed.

While watching this, I realised, much to my surprise, that I’d never seen The Blues Brothers—just one scene. So I spent two hours of chaotic car chases and musical numbers for the payoff I had already seen, disappointedly entertained.