Film Reviews by griggs

A remarkable cinematic feat, especially impressive as only the second feature from its director. The film combines bold storytelling with exceptional filmmaking, pushing narrative boundaries with audacity. It captivates with its complex themes and innovative direction, marking the director as a significant talent in contemporary cinema.

My expectations for The Idea of You were low, pretty low. However, the film was much better than I had anticipated. While somewhat predictable, the storyline had moments engaging enough to keep my interest. The ending of The Idea of You left a lasting impression, not because it was a standout conclusion, but because it marked the end of a journey. The relief I felt as the credits rolled was palpable, a testament to the film’s occasionally drawn-out pace. Yet, it wasn’t a complete letdown, offering some surprisingly enjoyable moments. The Idea of You may not be perfect, but it surpassed my admittedly low expectations.

This masterpiece of storytelling places viewers inside the room through Ozu’s unique static camera angles, creating a deeply personal viewing experience. Central to the film's emotional resonance is Chishu Ryu, whose portrayal of the father exudes a warm, gentle presence that irresistibly draws smiles.

Kidnapped tackles institutional abuse but struggles with its storytelling. The real events it's based on, the abuse of papal power, are powerful. However, the film can't decide whether to focus on Italy's political changes during its unification or the misuse of church power. This makes the story feel disjointed, and the true events are more interesting than the way the film tells them.

Cronenberg's exploration of technology's dark influence, retains an eerie quality, which adds a grotesque layer to the film's disturbing atmosphere, most notably James Woods' incredibly skinny forearms, which weren't a special effect.

Anomalisa is a quietly devastating gem—equally inspired, heart-breaking and darkly funny. Only Charlie Kaufman could turn stop-motion puppets into something so painfully human. It’s a bleak, beautiful look at loneliness and disconnection, with moments of surprising tenderness. The attention to detail is staggering, and the voice work nails it. A proper showcase of Kaufman’s genius—funny, sad, and oddly unforgettable.

Francis Ford Coppola's The Cotton Club Encore is a significantly improved version of the original 1984 film. It offers a better balance between dazzling dance sequences and gripping gangster action. The restoration highlights the vibrancy of the Cotton Club itself, making it a central character while maintaining the sharpness of the crime drama. However, despite these improvements, the film's initial failure still looms large, with its complex and interwoven storylines occasionally feeling overcrowded. While the Encore edition is more coherent and enjoyable, it also serves as a reminder of the film's troubled history and unmet expectations.

You will already know the plot outline if you've seen the trailers, so I won't mention it here. I did appreciate the Hitchcockian style of direction in the first act, where you find yourself rooting for Josh Hartnett's character to escape, even though he's a sadistic serial killer. That said, during the first 30 minutes, Hartnett's performance feels off—misguided and somewhat stiff, likely due to a questionable direction. Yet, in the final act, he truly shines, despite the film's last third abandoning the original premise.

Director M. Night Shyamalan, known for his plot twists, doesn't let you down here. The big one is that when the credits roll, you realise you've just watched a two-hour advert for Shyamalan's daughter, who plays a significant role in the movie, and little else.

Expecting a nail-biting experience? You won't find it here. The film lacks the suspense that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Instead, what you're left with is a sense of disappointment and regret for the missed opportunity to create a truly thrilling experience.

An Education is a smart, stylish film with a cracking lead turn from Carey Mulligan. It explores the seduction of glamour and the cost of growing up too quickly while quietly highlighting women's limited choices in the ’60s: marriage, education, and career, rarely both. There’s also a subtle thread addressing the era’s casual anti-Semitism that still manages to sting. The film manages to avoid the obvious pitfalls; the characters feel like people, not plot devices. That said, it wraps up a little too neatly. It’s thoughtful, well-acted, and quietly affecting.

My Life as a Courgette is a tender, melancholic stop-motion that surprises with its heartfelt portrayal of its oddly shaped characters. Released before Memoir of a Snail, it’s now easy to see why comparisons were made—both films explore sadness with a light but steady hand. The storytelling, with its straightforward yet effective approach, leaves a deep emotional imprint. It didn’t knock me sideways, but I felt quietly moved and admired its delicate treatment of difficult themes.

Memoir of a Snail is a beautifully crafted, emotionally wrenching animation that pushes the boundaries of what we expect from the medium. I can handle bleakness, but this is just unrelenting sadness, which is hard to process as our brains aren’t wired for this kind of anguish in animation. The visuals are stunning, and the score is beautiful. The final moments offer a sliver of redemption, but the weight of it all lingers like a punch to the gut.

Cruising is a film tangled in controversy and confusion. It flirts with being a thriller but never fully commits, leaving the plot disjointed and hesitant. In trying not to offend, it often does just that. Pacino holds it together, even when everything else threatens to fall apart. That said, there’s something hilariously unforgettable about Pacino in an interrogation room getting slapped by a near-naked bloke in a cowboy hat while everyone else acts like it’s just another day at the office.

I was recently asked to put together a programme of cult films for a local indie cinema. It didn’t come to anything, but the first film on my list was The Warriors.

 This is a proper urban odyssey—Homer by way of the New York subway. The gang’s journey from the Bronx to Coney Island (a route now steeped in cinematic legend) still feels like nothing else. Stylised, surreal, and strangely hypnotic, it’s one of those films that sticks in your brain long after the credits roll.

 When The Warriors aired on Moviedrome nearly 30 years ago, it caused a proper stir. Everyone at college was talking about it the next day. It felt raw, mythic, and utterly unique—a film that turned late-night TV into something close to a communal event.

 Having just returned from New York—jet-lagged and slightly ruined by the city’s endless subway stairs (seriously, New York, ever heard of escalators?)—I felt the urge to revisit it, especially after walking through Riverside Park, where that iconic gang conclave scene was filmed.

 Out of tiredness, I watched it on a streaming service this time rather than digging out my copy. Maybe it was my sleep-deprived brain, but it felt like a different cut altogether. The DJ narrator, usually the film’s framing device, barely showed up. And the soundtrack, once dripping with style, felt oddly muted—pared back to the bare bones. The magic was still there but dulled. Still, The Warriors remains firmly in cult classic territory.

It’s not as violent as you’d expect—it’s more about atmosphere, style, and that mythic sense of survival. There’s a gritty glamour to it that UK audiences have always lapped up. The idea of gangs in matching outfits prowling a city that never sleeps? Exotic, strange, and weirdly cool.

But watching it now, nearly 50 years on—and fresh off the actual subway, which has barely changed—it loses some of that otherworldly sheen. What once felt like a fever dream now hits closer to reality. Still, for all its flaws, it’s a film with swagger and still iconic.

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.

One-Eyed Jacks is a real oddity—but an oddly enjoyable one. The only film Brando ever directed (after both Peckinpah and Kubrick left the project), it’s a mixed bag. Some scenes feel choppy or strangely paced, and you can tell the editing room had a field day trimming what was originally a five-hour epic. Still, it’s great fun. The visuals are gorgeous—those delays waiting for the perfect Big Sur waves clearly paid off—and by the end, I honestly wished that full five-hour cut still existed. Sadly, it’s lost to time.

 Brando’s performance is the real draw. He didn’t live like an 1880’s bank robber for six months, but you’d believe it. Every gesture is so natural it’s almost hypnotic. This is the place if you want to see the Method in all its raw, magnetic glory. Although, when he and Malden had to act drunk? They just got drunk. A flawed gem—but a gem all the same.