Kevin Harley

Famuyiwa’s teen pic mixes a cocktail of crowd-pleasing vim and political punch, lent charm and conviction by Moore – a star in the making.

Gomez-Rejon’s sardonic yet sensitive story of geek friendship is the best YA illness novel adap yet. And yes, you can stick that on the poster.

You root for them as they bond, bicker and endure grim dangers – gangs, traffickers, police – but Quemada-Díez doesn’t play soft, and the stinging climax really sticks with you.

It’s Ant-Man, not pants, man. Marvel passes its biggest test in years with flying critters… plus wit, flair, top-notch casting and some good, gratuitous size gags.

Don’t worry, baby: Pohlad’s biopic is reverent, duly, but also rich, clever, warm and sensitive. Banks and Giamatti provide anchor, Cusack impresses and Dano surfs to glory.

Kapadia lays bare the tragedy of Winehouse’s story. It’s a tough, unfiltered watch but a thoughtful, thorough, feeling one.

The cast’s likeable work falls right through the script holes.

The punning title is true; his bracing words narrated by admirers, Fuller’s amazing journey is lovingly honoured. Fuller Life, full of heart.

Coherence croaks as Gout dishes enough jump-cuts, whip pans and slo-mo assassinations to make Michael Bay look restrained, but the multi-handed mood music offers meaty compensations.

Like a Cobain mixtape brought to feral life, Montage is scruffy, sharp and insightful on an oft-explored subject. The pay-off is terribly moving – it’ll drain you.

Next to message-laden, CG-soaked kids’ animations, SpongeBob stands alone. His return is a skittish but winning splash of nonsense: dip in.

Vogt’s droll, daring meta-drama flows in subtle, surprising fashion. Petersen provides a magnetic focus for a mischievous, moving debut.

Reynolds moves on from Green Lantern in Satrapi’s psycho-romp, pitched awkwardly between funny-haha and funny-peculiar, but blessed with enough style and smarts to merit a look.

Moore gives a controlled portrait of emotional implosion, bringing quietly heartbreaking nuances to a calm, considered treatment of a life-shattering situation.

Blending the mythical resonances of The Searchers with lyricism and bristly realism, Wolfe’s harrowing, haunting dispatch from Brit-cinema’s undergrowth is strong meat: emphatic evidence of a bold talent’s arrival.

After "Frozen," Disney delivers a heart-melter. The sweet, witty main pairing focuses a potentially busy, derivative super-group tale. Stay for the sting: Big Hero 7 is practically a given.

Patient, non-judgemental docu-making yields psychologically rich results in Jesse Moss’s potent dispatch from recession-hit America.

Even now we know he’ll thrive post-Hogwarts, Radcliffe impresses as Arthur Kipps, the solicitor, widower and father with an invested interest in the afterlife.

The music busts a gut straining for weepie affect, but you might shed a few yourself when the five-year battle reaches its jubilant, justified climax.

When someone in Age Of Extinction carps about “crap sequels and remakes” in movies, you almost choke on the audacity.

Flawed but often flooring, The Grandmaster swoons with grace, feeling and elegance. With Leung and Zhang on killer form, Wong has delivered his best film in a decade.

A lovingly balanced biopic that fends off award-gobbling clichés. Smarts + heart = a winner: it’s a simple equation, but Marsh makes it add up.

Gyllenhaal is engaged and engaging in Denis Villeneuve’s adventure in psychological surrealism: let’s hope they stay friends.

An earthy, affecting and droll celebration of the unique alignment of influences that forged a great band – and the thrusting live footage rams Pulp’s greatness home.

With measure and muscle, Lawrences Jennifer and Francis nail the job of selling the long, twisting road towards revolution.

Lawrence’s mechanised menagerie and the directors’ stereoscopic smarts entertain most.

From the texture of the underground havens to the idea that our leads have to – literally – cling to each other lest gravity tears them apart, it’s a wonder of detail and ingenuity.

It’s the fully invested leads and graceful, poetic direction that give this study of emotional interiors its subtly heartbreaking power.

Taking a cold, cruel plunge into its sociopath’s world, Winterbottom’s latest genre swerve is an accomplished neo-noir.

Hogg humanises the set-up with ripples of warmth, but it’s her evocation of a horror-style psychodrama through hints of domestic disquiet that lingers with you.

Singer has refreshed the series with blasts of his original entries’ X-factors: vim, levity, clarity and a sincere, soulful grip on the emotional stakes involved.

Alluring and unnerving, Lynch’s horror-show reminds us how much cinema misses him. Watts is electric, too.

Between the vast exteriors and candlelit interiors, the expressive authority of Kubrick’s direction is breathtaking.

The greatest trick he pulls is making you think he’s not genuine: beneath befuddling, bracing digressions on Picasso, Howard Hughes, biography, confidence tricks, growing beards and “girl-watching” lies a searching interrogation of ideas of authorship.