Simon Kinnear

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.

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 takes real talent to make something so studied feel this soufflé-light, especially in the Hatchers’ charming naturalism. Trouble is, Bujalski is too successful – in the end, everything is left hanging.

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

The culture clash comedy cleaves to predictability but the story’s specificity sustains its perceptive look at the human impact of post-9/11 jingoism.

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.

This muted procedural promises more than it can deliver.

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

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.

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

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.

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

The vagueness won't win Dumont new fans, but his enigmatic allegory of intertwined good and evil does linger in the mind.

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

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

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

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.

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

It’s more of a table wine – inoffensive, middlebrow and, like the scenes of grape harvesting here, hard work.

Director Erik Poppe’s worthy intentions are nearly undone by an undisciplined screenplay. Still, he marshals two strong performances.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.