Henry Barnes

Nothing really adds up to much, past a solid performance from Woodley and the energetic - if out-of-place - turn from Green.

Writer-director Kate Barker-Froyland's debut feature is a mournful number, held back by an uncertain performance by Flynn and an alienating reverence for the restorative power of middling indie-folk.

You can’t let your heroes be truly, purely horrible. But McDonagh’s moral twist comes in way too late and much too hard. It leaves you dizzy.

Pearce has fun; world-weary in the style of a 15-year-old told one too many times to tidy his room – but shoddy special effects and the surface-level sass of the president's daughter leave this one spinning in low orbit.

Parked putters, but doesn't go anywhere.

Horns plays instead like a high concept beer advert – breezily stylish, memorable in its time, but a bit too full of gas.

The dancefloor's full of bodies, the bride and groom have been backed into a corner by relatives desperate for their pound of flesh. Pretty much your average wedding, then.

The script's a drowner, the acting's awash. Again and again Butler returns to the sea. He just about survives the buffeting.

Sometimes it works - Brosnan and Thompson are sedately charming, Spall and Imrie are naturally funny together - but there's only so much humour you can squeeze out of Pierce's dicky prostate.

Originality may be out of Blood's jurisdiction, but it manages to plod on, dutifully walking a tired old beat.

Shepherds and Butchers doesn’t know which it is: the twisty legal drama that’s going to herd us through the issue or the ferocious expose, laying out the quotidian grimness of systemic death. It’s better at the latter. Even though much of the action is penned in the courtroom, the horror – and the interest – are played out in the past.

The flat-out dullness of Arthur is the point of Dante Ariola's debut feature, but it's also its undoing.

It aims for sexy and/or dangerous, but the tone is dry and the pace lags.

The film takes on Gabrielle’s listlessness, slumps into an opiated fug. The malady is mysterious and not easily treatable. It just exhausts you. It transforms from a story about release to just another jail. At times it felt like there was no escape.

The Other Woman scrawls out a dumb dumb-feminist message with a big, fat marker pen.

Salvation was boring, but Genisys makes you sad. Risk-averse Hollywood has made a crash-test dummy of a once great franchise, simply throwing everything at it to see what it stands.

A huge improvement on the muddled melodrama of Labor Day, Men, Women and Children is still a flawed Jason Reitman film. Its scope is too big, his ambitions too high.

Big but boring, expansive but cheap-looking, Allegiant spins in place, waiting for next year’s Ascendent to come along and offer resolution. In all candour: you can do without it.

An outrageously misjudged drama that flirts with the story of the birth of the gay rights movement.

The cast are some of the most promising actors of their generation, but what chemistry there is between them is swept away by wave after wave of expository dialogue and ludicrous exclamation.

What’s left after the gore is stripped away is a mildly bloody, meatless horror.

Novelistic, rich and awfully silly, London Fields – like Ben Wheatley’s take on High Rise - is a long-awaited adaptation of a popular and gloomily prophetic book, that seems unnecessary.