In an almost impressive display of ineptitude, Dominion combines the very worst vices of its predecessors in addition to a few new ones for good measure. As well as non-existent characterisation or thematic coherence, quaint concepts like comprehensible scene geography and narrative tension have all but disappeared.

A Glitch in the Matrix’s incuriosity and unstructured approach to its material at best mirror its subjects’ modes of thinking; at worst, it is little more than a voyeuristic freak show.

The Rise of Skywalker offers us nothing but toadying supplication to the worst aspects of fan culture. There is no story to tell here, no characters to care about, no ideas to explore. The film is pure construct, a box built for its own sake, at long last opened with excruciating listlessness, revealing nothing but its own vapid emptiness.

It is dull, cynical and utterly mirthless.

Ultimately, Sorrentino’s sympathies lie with Berlusconi because – in their vacuity and their need to impress – they have something in common.

An Evening with Beverly Luff Linn, tries to make a virtue out of extreme silliness and disjointed, oh-so-random plot points, but the end result is a desperately tiresome viewing experience.

It is difficult to work out what to dislike most about Victoria and Abdul: the literal foot-licking or the cliché-ridden plot, but the greatest shame is the waste of a genuinely fascinating piece of history and a world-class Judi Dench performance.

Dirty Grandpa wants to be as filthy as a Tijuana peep show featuring a beleaguered performer and put upon donkey, but ends up as sickly sweet as a Werther's Original.

What the director and writers have done is turn something that's considered by many to be dumb-but-fun into an overlong, unfunny film that's just plain dumb.

Sculpture is the art of turning lifeless stone into something that looks alive, flesh, living bodies and movement. Jacques Doillon's Rodin, in competition at Cannes, does precisely the opposite, turning living beings - passionate artists, no less - into lumps of lifeless clay.

Like The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons before it, Inferno stumbles into the same pitfalls of convoluted plotting, kindergarten art history and conspiracy theories of the daytime-slot-on-the-Discovery-Channel sort.

Paradoxically, the wide-eyed awe produces a narrow vision, heavy on the photogenic, with modern life corralled onto a SIM card and loaded with a platitudinous inquisition.

If you go out into the furthest reaches of Star Trek's filmography today, you're in for an unsettling discovery: the final frontier looks oddly familiar. It's brightly coloured eye-bait, Jim, exactly as we know it - outpacing your visual field in an attempt to convince you that something exciting is going on.

Money Monster hobbles towards the most unsurprising of finish lines. Thankfully, reaching the finale does put everyone out of their misery.

Captain America is simply awful. It is another hour and a half of prologue to the film people are apparently waiting for - The Avengers.

The film is nothing but a clumsy constructed yarn with a final scene/shot so cheap and misguided it sums up Keating's clunker with aplomb.

Hitman: Agent 47 is tedious, soulless and, for a film with a relatively trim runtime, seemingly never-ending.

Llosa shoots for the stars with her oblique pseudo-think piece, but unfortunately ends up dragging her latest offering down to the bottom of the coldest, darkest abyss of cod spirituality imaginable.

The sub-par acting, overdramatic cinematography and horribly predictable shock value of the film makes it all the more difficult to sit through without laughing at the ludicrous production or checking a cellphone to gauge how much torture one is expected to sit through before it finally ends.

While the first half has a brisk, upfront approach, the final hour is gobsmackingly dull - with emphasis on the smacking.

The only thing Joffe's Before I Go to Sleep has going in its favour is that it's too brief to really lull you into slumber - despite its best efforts,

Witless and predictable, Plastic is about as disappointing as British cinema gets.

An unfunny undead comedy that in harking back to the days of the classic B-movie would be flattered to be classified as an E-movie.

If there's a positive to be taken away from Hector and the Search for Happiness, it's that British cinema doesn't get much worse than this.

Does Michael Bay fit the criteria of an auteur? He certainly has his own line of distinctive tropes: the migraine-inducing noise, the fetishistic gloss, the playground-bully characters elevated to hero status and a fervently male gaze.

Postman Pat: The Movie is a disappointment; a modern-day reinvention of a traditional, much-loved classic that differs so far from its comfort zone that it'll have a difficult time winning audiences, let alone maintaining there attention.

The film isn't just bad - it's awful - ineptly directed (Olivier Dahan), terribly written (Arash Amel) and bafflingly acted by an assortment of miscast faces.

Stands out as a prime example of what not to do when trying to construct a watertight feature-length narrative on the foundations of a simplistic platform game.