Simon Kinnear

With its monochrome stylings and a plot laced with ennui, it might be the most French film ever made, but there’s no denying Garrel’s craft.

This portrait of an alienated culture funnelling its rage into gun violence is itself too cold and distant to connect.

The Raid star remains an electrifying, inventive fighter, even fending off a machete-wielding foe while handcuffed to a table.

A classy, actorly affair, whose emphasis on bittersweet character drama over class satire is both its most striking feature and biggest missed opportunity.

This muted procedural promises more than it can deliver.

Haggis struggles to make his presence felt over ludicrous thrills, but Crowe is superb and the entertainment factor high.

It’s too raw and difficult for one target audience, but the erratic tone might leave sick puppies equally nonplussed. Gunn’s jibes at Bible-bashers and gun-nuts are as blunt as Frank’s attacks, and the clash of kooky comedy and violence is as awkward as it is ugly.

Initially promising, this Aussie weepie branches unconvincingly into magic realism, with symbolism so clunky it hampers Gainsbourg’s involving turn.

Handicapped by its paper-thin premise, even a strong cast can’t lift Jake ‘son of Ridley’ Scott’s film out of indie-by-numbers mediocrity.

Sadly, rather than provide insight into Boateng’s creative process, director Varon Bonicos is dazzled by the globetrotting, celeb-schmoozing lifestyle.

It’s technically a doc, but neither Rivers nor his inscrutable subject is interested in backstory.

It’s a poetic elegy to a lost tribe that conjures up the Meryans’ secret lifestyle via surreal rituals and stunning widescreen visuals, although an over-explained voiceover and clunky symbolism sometimes weaken the spell.

The resulting puff-piece is a warning to crusading filmmakers about what happens after they’ve beaten the system.

Im Sang-Soo’s exposé of a Seoul family corporation is stymied by a humourless regurgitation of observations about power, corruption and lies.

Propelled by Lust’s performance, this is a fascinating study of solitude and sociopathic obsession, up to a point.

Undeniably beautiful, oddly moving... and quickly tiresome.

Even the film’s key source of charm, its heartfelt allegory about tolerance, becomes a flaw when rare flashes of anarchy (notably a tribe of crazed rodents) are eclipsed by over earnestness.

The film’s cryptic style obscures insight; just as the condition provides a scapegoat for neglecting Abby’s motives, so it prevents Passon from developing a sustained dramatic network. Satisfaction is fleeting.

Francesca Gregorini’s film stands or falls on a central mystery as silly as it is surreal. Fair play to Gregorini, though, for avoiding the temptation to deliver an outré slice of suburban Gothic; by framing events as melodrama, she can better examine themes of grief and motherhood.

Philippe Le Guay’s comedy promises an intellectual satire on how actors mirror their characters. Yet it’s compromised by indulgent pacing and ill-advised slapstick – leaving a cosy, middlebrow showcase for its stars to practise theatrical verse and fall off their bikes.

Mostly, it’s a study of an analogue ghost turned digital star; yet because Maloof is vested in building Maier’s reputation, the film leaves some uncomfortable questions about the ethics of posthumous fame.

It might look as though Hallmark, Benetton and Richard Curtis have collaborated on a movie, but Chelsom’s lightly subversive, self-aware tone bolsters Pegg’s best shot yet at a mass-appeal crowd-pleaser.

The thematic weight drags down the tension, yet just when it seems Janiak has forgotten the scares she pulls off a creepy finale.

The cumulative effect offers a tender tribute to the resilience of his subjects’ spirits against the thrum of traffic.

Shame that the plotting favours narrative intrigue over character depth, creating a film whose message is witnessed rather than felt.

It’s unashamedly broad, sentimental and clichéd, but Cox anchors proceedings with wit and tenderness, while Smith (who can act and shoot at the same time) adds wonder.

It’s best to sit back and luxuriate in the film’s unhurried pleasures: crisp Mediterranean settings, Alexandre Desplat’s mournful score and a clutch of likeable performances.

The material is a French classic, and Auteuil directs as such: this is cosy, undemanding heritage cinema.