Catherine Shoard

The brilliance of Quillévéré's direction is in the performances she coaxes from her cast, and the clear-eyed, non-judgmental way she presents them.

Robert De Niro does further damage to a reputation much battered by "The Big Wedding."

The movie is strongest is when it strips away the facts and focuses on the emotional notes.

A remorselessly rousing attempt to do for the Scottish pub rock twins what Mamma Mia! did for Abba or Tommy for The Who.

For all its flaws - in fact, perhaps because of them - Le Week-End is a work borne from, and provoking, real feeling.

It gleams with a faintly-tacky, country club sheen, as if it'd been sheep-dipped in essence of 70s and come out feeling peachy.

With its frank approach to the basics of human desire, its steady, intense focus on a small-town story which could have come straight from Douglas Sirk, Reitman's fifth feature appears to bear little resemblance the four that went before.

The Invisible Woman shies from propaganda just as Nelly shies from impropriety. Fiennes has done the right and proper thing here. He has, at 50, made a mature movie, prudent in the best possible sense.

This is highly competent catnip for the watercooler crowd.

Turturro has given Allen his biggest and best on-screen turn in years: the part was written for him and it's full of scope for amiable kvetching and nimble slapstick.

It reduces a complex and extraordinary case to soap. It makes you care less, for all its heavy-breathing and cheapo coaxing.

It's bracing, but it does feel closer to panto than melodrama, more exhausting than illuminating.

From time to time, the script contextualises a little clumsily...but the playing and pacing are terrific.

Curtis's heart is in the right place. In fact, it's all over the place – front and centre and backlighting the whole thing with a benevolent glow. But it is hard not to watch this, read the news that it will probably be his last as a director, and look to the future.

The genius of Alpha Papa, then, is in remaining faithful to Partridge's small-screen soul while also managing the demands of a big-screen Alan.

Shame was erotic compulsion turned into opera, full of sombre vibrato. Thanks for Sharing is probably the more realistic, as well as more mainstream, and there's a generous pinch of very funny lines, mostly bestowed on Robbins.

Scenes have a habit of stopping at any second, with or without whopping soundtrack.

There's the frustrating sense of ideas bubbling too low beneath the surface, of mordant jokes serving as an end rather than a means.

The film functions as clammy thriller as well as poetic agitprop.

The final scene, a ravishing in a room, with a view, as the bells of Florence chime out, would leave only a stone unmoved.