Andrew Lowry

There are highs and lows here, with a fair amount of shoe leather required before you get to the good stuff. Pretty much like a real festival, appropriately enough.

Sadly, Donald Trump hasn’t quite found his Leni Riefenstahl: this is a film too embarrassed to be what it is. And shorn of capes and costumes, vigilantism is pretty ugly. Though Roth’s gift for the gruesome gives it a small voyeuristic appeal.

Straightforward, unpretentious and well-acted, this is a solid if unsurprising genre piece.

The tension between the intended tribute and the lack of success on-screen makes for a muted viewing experience, but as a document of what were likely the waning days of American empire, and the curious priorities its agents chose during them, this is fascinating.

Taylor Sheridan’s flair for creating heartland epics is undimmed, but it’s hard not to wonder what someone with more directing chops, and the will to hit the accelerator, would have done with it.

With the story fit to burst with an Ocean's trilogy worth of hustles, tricks and grifts (some of them smart, others groan-inducing), at least Robbie is the genuine article – sharing playful chemistry with Smith, but ultimately stealing the movie from right under his nose.

Handsomely mounted and energetically played, this movie captures much of the real genius of James Brown... then obscures it with needless chronological fiddling.

It’s impossible to hate a film where the cast is so game, but you may struggle to remember it the morning after.

A highly enjoyable slice of in-one-eye, out-the-other nonsense. It may coast on the charisma of its leads at times, and it’s hardly deep, but there’s a Friday night to be had.

It's slight, sure, and there's a better, less-glossy film buried in the material, but warm performances redeem Crowe's agreeable return.