Film Reviews by griggs

I watched Madeline's Madeline, mainly because I liked Josephine Decker's later film Shirley. This one's trying to do a lot—race, mental health, coming of age, mother-daughter tensions, plus a whole meta-theatre layer—whilst bold, it often felt like it was trying too hard to be important. That said, Helena Howard is phenomenal. It's a breakout performance full of rawness and intensity; she holds the whole chaotic thing together. Miranda July felt oddly constrained by the direction, somewhat hemmed in a film that encourages improvisation and emotional looseness, which is her bread and butter but denied to her here. There's no shortage of ideas here, and it's definitely interesting. Still, it left me admiring the ambition rather than enjoying the ride.

Touki Bouki is a strange, stylish trip through ’70s Dakar, following two young lovers desperate to get to Paris. It’s got that scrappy, rebellious energy—lots of quick cuts, pop music, and surreal moments that give it a real French New Wave feel. But it’s not just fun and games. The slaughterhouse imagery is appropriately grim and sticks with you, casting a dark shadow over the whole thing. Mambéty’s saying something big about escape, identity, and what’s lost chasing a dream.

Microhabitat is quietly funny in that dry, blink-and-you'll miss it sort of way. Jeon Go-woon's debut is a subtle but assured sly satire about how utterly absurd adulthood turns out to be. The story follows Miso, played with pitch-perfect restraint by Esom, a character whose struggle to afford life's small pleasures in a world that demands too much and gives too little is all too relatable. Her choice of cigarettes and alcohol over her flat is a stark reflection of the compromises many of us make. What follows is a sofa-surfing odyssey through the crumbling dreams of her so-called friends, now the so-called 'adults'.

Each stop is a mini-tragicomic gem. Her sister, in the glamourous corporate job, which turns out to be little more than serfdom, held together by intravenous supplements, for which she undertook a nursing qualification to administer (the most valuable training she's taken). The joyless new parents, the pitiful man-child, a 50-year-old living with his parents, who support his attempts of abduction in order to marry him off. There's bleak satire in every corner—an unflinching look at how adulthood has failed us all. Never cruel—just painfully recognisable.

Miso's drifting detachment has hardened into something more radical. She begins to see those who've conformed as traitors—sell-outs to a broken system. Her lifestyle becomes a quiet manifesto, a rebellion against the rat race. Her freedom unsettles those who've buckled down, exposing their choices as cowardice. What begins as a story of survival turns into a powerful critique of societal norms. It's bleak, funny, and strangely empowering, leaving the audience enlightened and thoughtful.

The third act lands with a quiet, aching finality. As Miso's boyfriend confesses he's trading his dreams for stability, the film crystallises its core heartbreak—not just that adulthood is disappointing, but that even the dreamers eventually surrender. His choice isn't cruel, just crushingly ordinary. It's the slow erosion of hope that stings most. The time jump that follows is disorienting, deliberately so. Her old bandmates speak of Miso at a funeral with the hollow nostalgia of people who've long buried their idealism. Their words are polite, rehearsed, meaningless—revealing more about their own resignation than about her. And then, in a wordless, lingering moment, we glimpse a woman—greying, solitary, and still moving forward. Whether it's truly Miso or just her ghost doesn't matter. What matters is the sense that she never gave in. In a world that wears everyone down, her continued existence feels like a quiet act of defiance.

Microhabitat brilliantly mocks the illusions of adulthood with a knowing, bitter chuckle. Bleakly funny, oddly moving, and wonderfully observed.

Stylish, moody, and full of noir atmosphere, The Chase delivers strong performances and some genuinely suspenseful moments, even if Peter Lorre is oddly relegated to a minor role. Visually, it’s stunning—those shadowy, expressionist touches draw you in. But the dream twist feels like a cop-out, undercutting the tension it works so hard to build. Add to that a back-seat driver plot device that borders on the ridiculous, and the film’s promise never quite comes together in the end.

Maybe it was my mood or tiredness, but Weekend didn’t click with me. I couldn’t get into Godard’s style or the film itself. I get the point he was trying to make, the politics and the artistic flair, but it all felt a bit much. I couldn’t find any humour amidst the chaos unravelling on the screen to make it bearable. One to mark down as experience—I’ll give it another go.

District 9 kicks off with a bang—fun, gritty, and super inventive, like Starship Troopers meets The Fly. It’s made with love for those influences, almost like a tribute, and that energy shines early on. Sharlto Copley is excellent—awkward, believable, and increasingly unhinged—and Neill Blomkamp’s direction is sharp, especially in the mockumentary-style opening. With some of the production touches, you can feel Peter Jackson’s backing too.

But somewhere around the halfway mark, it loses its grip. What starts as a clever allegory for apartheid and xenophobia kind of forgets its own message in favour of action and CGI chaos. It ends on a strong note with an unmistakable anti-capitalist sting, but you’re left wishing it had stuck the landing a bit more. Still, it's worth a watch.

Frida isn’t a bad film, but it often floats around the edges of its subject. We learn more about Diego Rivera—the man who painted walls—and the famous figures orbiting her, like Trotsky and Rockefeller, than we do about Frida Kahlo herself. There’s not enough insight into what drives her, what fuels her art, or who she truly is beneath the striking imagery. The most insightful moment comes in a brief exchange—less than 20 seconds—as she talks to Trotsky atop Mayan ruins. But even that is quickly reframed through his interpretation of her story before he shifts the focus to his family, stripping her of agency once again. The direction is lively and visually creative, and Salma Hayek is strong in the lead, but the film never quite digs deep. It feels more like a guided tour of those around her than a portrait of the woman herself.

Walker is a mad, fascinating ride — part biopic, part political piss-take, and unlike like anything else of its time. Alex Cox takes the true story of William Walker, an American who rocked up in 1850s Nicaragua and decided to make himself president and turns it into a wild dig at US meddling during the Contra War. It starts playing it straight, then the modern touches sneak in — Zippos, machine guns, Coke bottles — until the whole thing turns into bonkers, brilliant chaos. It’s loud, proudly political, and properly strange.

 Cox directs with swagger, making great use of Nicaragua’s dusty, sun-scorched backdrops. Rudy Wurlitzer’s script has bite and even manages to land a few laughs. Ed Harris is all intensity as Walker — half madman, half true believer. Sure, it’s weird and rough around the edges, but it’s pacy, bold, and never overstays its welcome.

The Devils is absolute madness — part history lesson, part full-blown nightmare — and still feels dangerous over 50 years on. Ken Russell doesn’t hold back, throwing everything at the screen in this wild, visually bonkers fever dream. Censors and studio execs butchered it when it came out in ’71. Warner Bros still won’t touch the fully uncut version, even though the missing bits were found and restored in 2004. The infamous “rape of Christ” scene? Still locked in the vault.

At its heart, The Devils is a furious, no-holds-barred rant about what happens when religion and politics get too cosy, and how those in charge can whip people into a frenzy to keep their grip on power. Oliver Reed is pure charisma as Grandier, swaggering through the chaos, while Vanessa Redgrave is hypnotically unhinged. Russell directs like a man possessed, and Derek Jarman’s sets are weird, stark, and unforgettable. It’s messy, noisy, and suitably uncomfortable — which is entirely the point. Despite all the drama around it, The Devils still hits hard today, especially in a world where truth feels optional and politics is pure theatre.

The Order might be set in the ’80s, but it’s got the grit and mood of a ’70s crime thriller—bleak, tense, and uneasy silences. Jude Law is surprisingly great as a burnt-out FBI agent sent to a quiet town to keep an eye on a bunch of neo-Nazis who’ve been keeping their heads down—until they don’t. Law plays it with just the right amount of world-weariness, like a guy who’s made too many mistakes and knows it. Nicholas Hoult is properly unnerving as the white supremacist’s ringleader, cold and unhinged in a way that never feels over the top. The plot dips occasionally, and a few moments are verging on the ridiculous. Still, when it kicks off, it really kicks off. The Order is one dark and moody film that is sadly very relevant to today’s world.

Slow, calm, and quietly intriguing, Shoplifters gently pulls you into a makeshift family, only to unravel a darker truth beneath the warmth. The twist creeps in, never loud, just unsettling. It makes you wonder: are laws and morality always right? Maybe love’s messier but somehow more honest. Thought-provoking.

Sweet Bean is lovely, gentle, pretty, and quietly acted, but I just wasn’t pulled in. It sort of drifts along, never quite gripping me or making me care much. I don’t regret watching it, but it left me feeling flat. It’s fine, it’s okay. Just very, very okay.

Sidney Lumet proves yet again he’s the king of New York City thrillers. Prince of the City is a gripping, slow-burn dive into police corruption, following Treat Williams as Daniel Ciello, a narcotics detective who turns informant—only to realise he’s over his head. Unlike Serpico, which digs deep into one man’s personal struggle, this plays out more like a meticulous police procedural, laying bare the tangled web of corruption, bureaucracy, and betrayal. Williams is phenomenal, shifting between cocky, paranoid, and completely unravelled as the pressure mounts.

Nobody films New York like Lumet. The city isn’t just a backdrop; it’s alive—loud, chaotic, and pulsing with tension. From sweaty police offices to dimly lit bars and soulless courtrooms, every scene oozes authenticity. The slow-burn pacing pulls you deeper into Ciello’s world, where every decision feels like a trap. A relentless, nerve-wracking must-watch.

Duel is an absolute nail-biter—the best thing I’ve ever seen from Spielberg. From the moment David Mann crossed paths with that rusted, smoke-belching truck, I was utterly hooked. The faceless driver turns a simple road trip into a relentless nightmare, with every roar of the engine feeling like a threat.

Dennis Weaver delivers a sweaty, truly human performance, throwing vanity aside to show real vulnerability. He’s not some action hero—just an average guy pushed to the edge, and you feel every ounce of his fear and frustration. Spielberg’s economy in storytelling is razor-sharp—no fluff, no wasted moments, just pure, escalating tension. The wide-open desert should be a place of escape, but here, it’s a suffocating trap. The camerawork is sharp, the editing tight, and the whole thing feels raw and honest.

And how on earth was this Spielberg’s debut? It’s too good—too assured, too masterful in its suspense. Most directors don’t make something this great in their whole careers, let alone straight out of the gate. And if you haven’t seen the 4K version, do yourself a favour—it looks incredible. The heat, the dust, the sweat, the sheer physicality of everything—every detail pops, making the film even more immersive. It’s stripped-down, edge-of-your-seat filmmaking at its absolute finest.

Kelly Reichardt, a master of quiet, deeply felt storytelling, once again proves her prowess in Kelly and Lucy. Her signature restraint captures visual beauty and narrative trauma, allowing emotion to simmer beneath the surface rather than spelling it out. As Reichardt's muse, Michelle Williams delivers a performance that is nothing short of magnificent, embodying so much with just a glance or pause. It is obvious why Reichardt casts Williams time and time again. Reichardt's trust in her audience is evident—there's no spoon-feeding, no over-explaining, just raw, lived-in moments that hit hard. The film lingers in your mind, not because it shouts, but because it whispers, leaving space for you to feel every unspoken ache and fleeting joy.