Cath Clarke

The film is, I think, just as Cunningham would have wanted it: cerebral, highbrow and mildly frustrating, with nothing so conventional as talking heads or context.

Is there something creepy about Franny’s aggressive generosity and need to be needed? In a film with a better script, yes.

It’s raw, funny and incredibly moving.

Holy Cow is sentimental in the best of ways, with its warmth and hope in human nature.

Brilliantly, Schoenaerts almost underplays Roman’s anger, lumbering slowly like a wounded animal, the downward slope of his eyes conveying a howl of rage. It’s an electrifying performance.

How refreshing to watch a film in which the sexuality and desire of women in their 70s is portrayed not as a novelty but simply part and parcel of their lives; and since this French movie is a lesbian drama, there’s two of them – even better.

The medical side of things is shown in documentary detail, and it’s fascinating.

Tragedy and slapstick run through the film and it is very funny.

With a blend of archive footage and re-enactments the film-makers skilfully recreate the urgency, passion and energy of their protest.

What a man. Just writing this makes me want to watch the documentary all over again.

Often music documentaries feel padded out with filler but honestly I could have spent another hour in Copeland’s company.

The movie is saturated with emotion and colour, though its novelistic depth brings with it the slightly effortful running time of two hours and 20 minutes.

Watching Raw is a bit like seeing a toddler crawl toward a four-lane highway. You can’t tear your eyes away, but at same time you want to squeeze them shut. This is a film that doesn’t just put you through the wringer; it scrapes your insides out. It left me trembling for hours.

For a film posing the metaphysical biggies, there is tenderness and laughs. Its bonkers approach to storytelling and life may drive some nuts. The rest of us will soar with the birds.

What’s interesting about Revenge is that it’s told from a female perspective – and by a female filmmaker.

Àma Gloria is a small-scale film, barely over 80 minutes, but it leaves an almighty impression.

The Grand Bizarre is a film that will alienate many with its video-artiness but the focus here on looking and looking again with wonder at the everyday stuff around us may strike a chord at the moment.

What the film does very well is show how doping became so normalised. It’s as much a part of the team’s routine as a post-race rubdown.

There is just too much going on, and the movie doubles in hecticness with every minute that passes, which may have you rummaging around for a couple of paracetamol.

There’s plenty of white-knuckle footage from the archive, as well as reflections of old muckers. Fiennes says that in his darkest, diciest moments in peril he imagined his heroes – the father and grandfather he never met – watching over him.

A little of the intimacy is gone, and I have to admit to not being 100% sold on the cowboy-inflected songs, which feature quite a bit of dime-store sentimentality. But Springsteen is undoubtedly magnetic, his voice a honeyed growl.

Like watching a statue for two-and-a-half hours, there’s nothing to do but sit back and yawn.

It’s tender and poignant, but might be a bit cloying were it not for Norton, who underplays it beautifully with a performance of tremendous depth and empathy.

It’s watchable, but don’t expect your mind to be blown – more gently prodded.

Chumbawamba split up in 2012. They’re still mates and come across here as extremely likable, not taking themselves at all too seriously. Scenes of them nattering together, having a giggle now, are lovely.

This woman has plenty of blunt wisdom to share.

If it wasn’t so violent, the simplicity of the metaphor – how the abused and outcast will rise up – would work for young audiences. And you won’t beat it for dog acting.

It is a thing of beauty: too beautiful perhaps, running a real danger of prettifying poverty.