Simon Kinnear

Conceived on an unprecedented scale in ambition and technique, Otomo’s rich visuals and awe-inspiring action depict a post-apocalyptic dystopia where the threat of feral biker gangs is dwarfed by the rise of an uncontrollable psychic.

As Scrooge, Michael Caine rises to the challenge and helps find the pathos beneath the puppetry.

The ambition is bracing, but critical hindsight obscures how exciting Malle’s noir thriller is on its own terms.

The film’s power lies in its use of archive footage, voiceover and even Ebert’s computerised speech translator to keep the writer’s voice alive.

While sympathetic to their plight, the directors prove alert to the story’s wider impact, speaking to proud parents and outraged opponents alike.

What distinguishes My Brother The Devil is El Hosaini’s maturity in avoiding faux-doc grittiness, political grandstanding or flashy glorification in favour of an intimate, closely observed character piece.

The initially cryptic plotting and low-key realism are familiar from Iranian dramas; what’s striking is how Rasoulof shifts into such a lucid, gut-punching tale of persecution. The film’s flaws are forgivable; its very existence should be applauded.

Mixing candid talking heads with scarcely believable video footage, Miller’s taut narrative shifts gears (black comedy, thriller, even a love story), but is mostly driven by outrage at the powers that be.

With film labs closing down and new formats springing up all the time, this is a timely stock-take of 21st Century cinema.

Political without point-scoring, Jacir remains true to a child’s-eye view, with Asfa’s delightful, exuberant performance always upfront.

The simple approach teases fascinating parallels between art and marriage: essential to both, it seems, are a thick skin and an optimism verging on madness.

This strikingly original feelgood fable is artfully balanced between director Kim Mordaunt’s roots in documentary and a spellbinding magic realism.

Driven by a committed turn from Witherspoon, Jean-Marc Vallée confirms himself as the go-to director for triumph-over-adversity character studies.

Vikander brings fresh emotional weight to the familiar scenario of WW1 grief, ensuring that this mostly avoids the traps of dull, dutiful heritage cinema.

Terence Nance’s unique film, freely mixing autobiography, animation and artiness, is a dizzyingly complex collage about romance and memory.

Astonishing macro-photography captures the bees in all their surreal beauty, presenting a tribute to nature’s “messenger of love” and a warning of what might be lost.

Smith casts non-pro Venkatesh Chavan alongside Bollywood star Nana Patekar to achieve credible chemistry, enhanced by his choice of quiet observation rather than Slumdog -style pizzazz and the delicate emotional kick and finespun simplicity of a short story.

The characters are unfailingly polite, whatever their grievances, and there isn’t a single false note in this generous, affectionate portrait of people making the best of their situation.

Matthew Akers’ document of the event skews close to hagiography but is consistently informative in charting Abramović’s career, and genuinely engaging thanks to his subject’s witty, unpretentious presence.

Arrietty’s craft and charm will invite universal acclaim.

The Dardenne brothers deliver a perceptive portrait of professional integrity under pressure.

The result is a shrewd look at classroom etiquette and an achingly sad study of grief-stricken solitude, built on ace performances by Fellag and the kids-especially 11-year-old scene stealer Sophie Nélisse.

Barker’s approach starts simplistic but gathers in complexity, insight and moral force with each story.

With the characters rarely verbalising their attraction, Ribeiro impresses by conveying Leonardo’s awakening through elegant long takes and the actors’ endearing chemistry.

Their wry, odd-couple chemistry is comfortingly familiar, but kept fresh by an insouciant realism that deftly avoids exotic cliché.

Korean maestro Bong Joon-ho’s (The Host) playfully off-kilter Hitchcockian thriller refuses to play by genre rules, stir-frying slow-burn menace and Freudian drama into unpredictable combinations.

Shot with a retro chic, their courtship is crisp, but there’s enough grit in this Cannes prize-winner to stop it floating away.

Rural life is familiar terrain for British cinema, but with Barnard as our guide, it remains an enthralling destination.

Equally cool and cruel, stuffed with subtext, this ‘Iranian fairytale’ weaves its spell to a flip, hip ending. Amirpour is one to watch.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Despite risking life and sanity, these American Dreamers are surprisingly cheerful, making for a light-hearted study of eccentric hobbyists.

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

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.

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

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

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 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.

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

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.

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

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

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

Huard’s charm offsets the plots contrivances, while Ken Scott’s finely balanced direction humanises the high concept.

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

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

This muted procedural promises more than it can deliver.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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