Matthew Leyland

Sofia, so good. Coppola takes Manhattan with a breezy, beautifully observed daddy-daughter portrait.

“I’m always going to be inside your head,” growls Crowe. Maybe not, but this fast, brutal chase-fest is trashy fun while it lasts.

A solid if unexceptional sea movie whose brevity is welcome after the stodgy likes of "Midway." Hanks keeps the propellers churning.

Set pieces play saviour in Netflix and Chris Hemworth's generic kidnap thriller.

The sci-fi settings – dystopian grit-scape, rainbow-coloured cosmos – are dazzlers; the satire is playful not snarky; and as you’d expect, several unexpected cameos. It doesn’t sweat too hard to appease both kids and adults – the latter’s pain much felt in a scene you might describe as product mis-placement.

Overlong, but Momoa’s charisma, plus first-class fishy FX, keep it afloat.

What Black’s movie really has going for it is pace. It starts with a crash, followed swiftly by a bang and vast swathes of wallop. The relentlessness doesn’t allow you any time to catch a yawn, but it’s also not too conducive to tension or suspense.

Vexingly, Ferrell flaunts his daft genius just enough to avert an entirely shite Christmas.

Strained, shrieky and lacking likeable characters, it bizarrely forgoes any insight into parenting, gambling, or the cost of education for Grand Guignol limb-lopping.

Unfunny, unthrilling and unsexy, this doesn’t even reach the low bar set by the source material.

When it’s not being shrill, obvious or awkwardly wistful, Nigel Calendar Girls Cole’s comedy is quite funny.

Curveballs are rare in this pop-umentary on Earth’s biggest boyband; but with lengthy gig clips, lots of cute mucking-about (segways, disguises, hiding in wheelie bins) and Harry’s shirt off within the first 10 minutes, Directioners won’t be disappointed.

A huge, CGI-heavy popcorner that still feels personal. Come for the epic monster-on-mecha showdowns, stay for the likeable humans.

A bracing attempt to bring the legend back into contention that successfully separates itself from other Super-movies but misses some of their warmth and charm. But given the craft and class, this could be the start of something special

Less abrasive than Part II, but lacking any of Part I's freshness, this is the most lacklustre return-to-Vegas, trilogy-closing caper since "Ocean's Thirteen."

Mostly, this is fantastic fun: a two-hours-plus blockbuster that doesn’t bog down in exposition or sag in the middle. There are reversals and rug-pulls galore, most of them executed with whiplash skill.

Carell and Carrey shine like sequinned suits in a comedy that allows them endless fun with the dressing-up box. More narrative verve and it could’ve been The Prestige in a big-cat wig.

Charming, spectacular, technically audacious… in short, everything you expect from a Peter Jackson movie. A feeling of familiarity does take hold in places, but this is an epically entertaining first course.

Aside from the usual self-slamming doors and flying bodies, there are enough creepy kids and hiding knives to distract from a plot that's increasingly mobile yet running on the spot.

A smart, stirring spectacle that faces down impossible expectations to pull off a hugely satisfying end to business.

What's remarkable is the lack of cheese. Tacky effects, corny dialogue and creaky performances are all shown the door. We repeat: not the new "Twilight".