Simon Kinnear

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.

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

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.