Film Reviews by griggs

Jannings nails the slow crumble of dignity, and the cinematography is extraordinary even by today’s standards, but that tacked-on ending? Feels like a classic case of old-school studio meddling. Back when every film had to have a happily-ever-after, no matter how grim the story got.

Earnest, beautifully shot and heartfelt, Into the Wild captures the allure of escape but sometimes feels too self-serious for its own good, leaning on self-mythologising. Emile Hirsch gives it his all, but Penn’s direction sometimes drifts into ponderous territory, allowing the film to meander more than it inspires. Still, it undeniably affecting places.

Nicolas Cage has built a reputation for making some bold, unconventional career choices in recent years, diving into a range of unique and often off-beat films that defy the expectations of mainstream Hollywood. From Mandy to Longlegs, Cage has delivered some truly fascinating, if not always widely appreciated, performances. With The Surfer, he once again takes on a role that promises to be eccentric and boundary-pushing. Unfortunately, this time, despite Cage's commitment and the film's daring premise, the result is ultimately more frustrating than fulfilling.

Set against the backdrop of an Australian coastal town, The Surfer follows Cage's character as he navigates a series of personal and professional crises. The setting could have been the perfect place for a character study. Still, the film suffers from numerous flaws that undermine its potential. First and foremost are the plot holes. The narrative lurches from one underdeveloped subplot to another, leaving viewers struggling to make sense of crucial story elements and emotional arcs that are introduced and then abandoned with little explanation.

While still carrying his trademark intensity, Cage's performance feels almost too detached from the material. It's clear he's trying to elevate the film with his presence. Still, even his considerable skills can't save the disjointed script and inconsistent character development. The supporting cast, unfortunately, doesn't do much to shore up the film either, with several performances that are more wooden than compelling. There's a lack of chemistry between Cage and his co-stars. This becomes painfully apparent in the quieter, more intimate moments that could have saved the film from its overwhelming tone of confusion.

As for the production, the decision to shoot The Surfer in Australia feels like a financial choice, given the backing received from Film Australia, rather than an artistic one. Given that the film was likely envisioned as a Los Angeles-set story—based on its coastal surf culture premise—the shift to Australia never quite makes sense within the context of the plot. This relocation doesn't just muddy the geographical setting but also disrupts the story's internal logic–and ends up reading as anti-Australian propaganda.

In terms of direction and pacing, The Surfer is at odds with itself. At times it lingers too long in scenic, unspoken moments, trying to create a sense of weight and atmosphere that the script simply doesn't support. Other times, it rushes through pivotal plot points, leaving us wondering why the film didn't give them the attention they deserved.

In the end, The Surfer is a missed opportunity. While Cage's recent string of off-beat projects has demonstrated his willingness to take risks, this film feels more like a cash grab, attempting to draw on Australia's lucrative film incentives without fully committing to the necessary creative depth. Instead, what could have been an exciting exploration of identity, loss, and redemption becomes a muddled, forgettable affair. Fans of Cage may still find some enjoyment in his performance, but for most viewers, The Surfer is likely to disappoint.

Visually striking and tackles an important subject with guts and originality. The animated format really stands out, and it’s an inventive way to explore trauma and memory. That said, I didn’t always feel emotionally drawn in. It’s the kind of film you’re glad exists, even if it doesn’t fully connect with you. Interesting and important, but not something I’d rush to watch again.

Beautifully bleak and darkly funny—like a hug from someone who just told you their tragic life story and then farted nervously.

A quietly devastating drama that starts strong but loses its way in the middle. The second act really drags—like wading through grief with lead boots—and I began to check out. The third act brings some much-needed energy, but it’s such a sharp left turn it borders on unbelievable. It feels like a different film after all that raw, grounded emotion. That said, Sissy Spacek is quietly ferocious, and the much-missed Tom Wilkinson is magnetic—even if his accent does wander. Their performances are the anchor here, pulling you into their pain. Flawed, but there’s something in it that stays with you.

Birth is eerie, elegant, and just a bit bonkers. Glazer directs with icy precision—long takes, hushed dialogue, and a camera that drifts like a ghost. Mood takes precedence over plot, wrapping you in grief and dread until reality starts to blur. Kidman is quietly mesmerising, and the whole thing feels like a dream you only half-remember but can’t shake. It doesn’t always land, but when it does, it’s properly haunting.

Bleak and beautiful, Black Dog lingers in the dust of a soul-starved desert town. The harsh, unforgiving landscape mirrors its loner protagonist—both worn down, both shut off. But as walls crack, so does the terrain. What starts as stark isolation slowly softens into something unexpectedly tender. Quietly mesmerising.

Total Recall is a gloriously over-the-top sci-fi that thrives on its gritty, tactile world. The practical effects are next-level—chunky sets, wild prosthetics, and costumes that feel worn rather than designed. It makes today’s CGI-heavy blockbusters look sterile by comparison. There’s a real argument this could be the peak of effects-driven filmmaking. Arnie does what Arnie does: brilliant when blasting baddies, less convincing when trying to deliver a heartfelt line. Still, it’s endlessly watchable.

The Congress is a wild, heady blend of sci-fi and showbiz satire, like Mulholland Drive had a psychedelic baby with Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Robin Wright sells her digital likeness to a studio, spiralling into an animated dreamscape of identity, alienation, and commodification. A decade ahead of its time, it eerily predicts today’s AI-fuelled battles over actors’ rights. I’m glad I watched it—but for all its ambition, it’s a beautiful mess that never quite coheres—an intriguing curio in Hollywood’s digital hall of mirrors.

Le Doulos had me from frame one—hooked, locked in, and loving every shady second. This is French New Wave so effortlessly cool; it makes classic Hollywood noir feel like it’s trying too hard. Melville doesn’t just tell a story; he builds a labyrinth where every character is a cypher, and every conversation is a potential double-cross. It demands total attention. Blink, and you’re lost. But that focus means the film’s visual style sneaks up on you—gorgeous, shadow-drenched, and razor-sharp–with no time to comprehend what you have seen until the movie ends.

Belmondo oozes charisma, but the whole cast crackles. Reservoir Dogs, The Usual Suspects, and Heat pull from this cold-blooded template. And that ending? Pure noir poetry. It flips everything on its head and dares you to watch it again.

Melville’s masterpiece feels like noir’s evolution—less jazz hands, more psychological warfare. It’s slick, stylish, and devastating. If you’re serious about crime cinema, this one’s non-negotiable.

Scarface is a cracking slice of Prohibition-era chaos—surprisingly brutal, even by today’s standards. For a film that barely shows a drop of blood, it still manages to leave you reeling with implied violence and ruthless energy. Paul Muni’s a livewire, chewing up the screen as a gangster on the rise, and Hawks directs like he’s got dynamite in his back pocket. The action zips along, and the body count stacks up without having to spell it out. But those moralising interludes—weird, preachy fourth wall breaks that suck the life out of the film—are an early symptom of the Hays Code, which demanded changes tacked on to condemn gangsterism and forced a different ending. A shame, really, as those changes convinced me to hang up my Tommy gun and go straight—now I just do white-collar crime like everyone else. 

Two-Lane Blacktop is a cult classic that plays like a slow, meditative drift through a fading America, a cinematic time capsule—lonely, stripped down, and oddly beautiful. Dialogue is sparse, almost awkward, and the soundtrack is essentially absent. Instead, the roar of the engines carries the mood, pulsing through every frame like a heartbeat. It’s often grouped with Easy Rider, Vanishing Point, and Electra Glide in Blue, but this one’s quieter, colder, and more distant. A film that doesn’t explain itself—and doesn’t care if you get it or not.

The Fly is part sci-fi, part horror, with Vincent Price raising a perfectly arched eyebrow throughout. It's classic 1950s atomic-age paranoia—where science promises paradise, then immediately creates a monstrosity. Think Godzilla meets Quatermass but with teleportation pods and a bloke in a giant papier-mâché fly's head. The middle is a bit of a slog, and Cronenberg's remake upped the goo and budget. But that ending? Mental. "Help meeee!" is still one of the creepiest payoffs in horror. Flawed, yes—but iconic. Pure late-night movie gold.

Soul was a film that surprised me. It's not your typical Pixar movie, but rather the jazz-loving, older cousin of Inside Out, dealing with existential questions. I initially thought it was a children's film, but it sparked deep thoughts about my life choices. The film is visually stunning, as expected, and has that classic Pixar heart, with some genuinely funny moments. However, what truly stood out was its unique ability to prompt personal reflection. It struck me quietly and thoughtfully, leaving me with a lot to ponder.