A lacklustre, clichéd and at times wholly unbelievable film.

American writer-director Erika Arlee’s debut feature showcases strong performances and nice visual flourishes, but A Song for Imogene struggles to find an emotional hook.

Like most of Howard’s films, Hillbilly Elegy is perfectly watchable, unchallenging and largely forgettable awards fodder.

When Good Kill takes aim at US foreign policy and the advances in military technology, it creates moments of chilling and powerful drama, but this is dissipated and compromised by its mirror-punching domestic drama and its bizarre need to bring about something like a happy ending.

Taken as a transient, high-paced and familiar rock 'em, sock' em kind of film, it packs quite a punch.

Its aspirations to high-end production values and the inventive use of urban cityscapes filmed from carefully selected futuristic angles are all very well, but it could have done with something a little looser, more punk, more grimy, more stoned.

In its determined avoidance of sensationalism, it finds itself stranded in an empty space so understated, it is genuinely difficult to understand what, if anything, it is saying.

Superficiality soaks the entire film.

It is as glitzy and gaudy as the festival itself, with its vacuous politics drowned out by the thunderous sound of it slapping its own back.

Everything seems designed to disturb or perhaps infuriate the viewer.

The problem with The Guardian is that though all the ingredients are there, they fail to come together in the final mix.

There are some dumb thrills to be had but there is also the sense here of an ambition not quite realised.

No amount of tight corridors and shots of CCTV monitors ever make protagonist Tatyana feel in peril: this, far more than derivative monsters and confusing themes, is Sputnik’s fatal error.

Lacks both the iconic heft of its predecessor's imagery as well as any sense of character development.

Sadly, the intriguing set up - along with Del and Bonnie - is left behind for a too nakedly state-of-America musing, with everyone Charley happens across having some social ill to portray.

Although there is certainly tension at moments and Driver once more proves himself an actor of great promise, Hungry Hearts falls between two baby chairs - neither satisfying as a thriller nor convincing as a drama.

As a piece of extraterrestrial-tinged whimsy, Lifeforce occasionally shows weak signs of life, but in the end it falls well short of achieving classic status.

The Danish Girl is as handsome yet disappointingly flat as a painting on a chocolate box. It should certainly be applauded for bringing to light an unsung hero of the transgenderism, but in its unremitting tastefulness and sentimentality - even a beating has beautiful setting and a lovely bit of blood - it ultimately left this reviewer as cold as a dip in a Danish bog.

The blend of influences does feel hackneyed, at certain junctures.

It's all so random and the 3D Kodachrome colours, poised performances and careful framing can't disguise the fact that The Beautiful Days of Aranjuez has very little to say.

Horrible Bosses 2 is by no means an atrocity, but it's tired and unexceptional, which is perhaps worse.

As far as holiday films go this is perfect for lightening the holiday hangover but ultimately it's equal parts onerous and energetic, overreaching in its attempt not buckle under the weight of previous iterations.

Everything looks incredible, but the players are all just ciphers for ideas that Snyder lacks the wherewithal to execute.

Adapted by Cianfrance himself, The Light Between Oceans feels overly tied to its previous form.

Despite its manifold flaws, Jackie & Ryan is still oddly watchable.

If for no other reason than its place in comedy history, Here Comes Mr. Jordan is interesting, if dispensable viewing.

There are the occasional moments when Bushwick lets on that it knows that this is all truly awful.

The comedy is never hearty enough to be truly enjoyable, only managing a chain reaction of titters at best.

Set in early 1970s Chile, and prefaced with archival footage of the final days of Salvador Allende's presidency, The Colony paddles indecisively in the unspeakable ills of the Pinochet era without ever really taking the plunge.

Racer and the Jailbird is a stylish, often promising film, but sadly one that never coheres into genuine drama.

Gordon-Levitt is perfectly fine as Snowden, getting the voice and cadence fairly spot on and he looks almost right. The problem is that he's such an introvert and blank slate - that's pretty good for espionage but not especially compelling for a character arc.

The problem is that Apocalypse's highlights feel like moments of serenity amidst two-and-a-half-hours of lumbering, inconsequential chaos.

Looped around a paper-thin narrative that makes hardly any sense, Secret of the Tomb displays signs of fatigue right from the start.

A documentary that poses more questions that it answers can intrigue and beguile but there are vast areas in We Are X left crying out for further exploration.

The Wait consistently defies common sense in order to sustain the thin narrative.

Your appreciation or otherwise of the film is going to be greatly influenced by whether or not you’ve seen the original, and as such Final Cut doesn’t really elbow its way to the front. However, if you can stand the slight whiff of decomposition then this deconstruction is fun and clever.

Despite its claims to zaniness and colouring outside the lines, probably the most damning indictment of the silly Suicide Squad is that it's unrelentingly bland.

Wilde has already proven herself as a director with her brilliant debut. Even the hackneyed sci-fi concept behind Katie Silberman’s screenplay wouldn’t have been too much of a problem if it wasn’t for the performances.

Sadly, despite some cultish potential this aptly-titled debut feature is indeed a lost cause: an incoherent, undisciplined and tedious mess with little about it to truly recommend.

Penn's film doesn't entertain greatly nor does it have much coherent to say.

In a film about resurrected dinosaurs, suspension of disbelief is mandatory, but the script’s illogical nonsense and flat, cartoonish characters compound on each other until any audience goodwill has evaporated.

As much as the sequel aches to remind audiences of what they liked first time round, it struggles to establish itself as its own unique entity.

Ultimately, the attempt to over-deliver on themes leads to a serious under-delivery of dramatic impact. This is a disjointed film, inexplicably a classic for some, that fails to engage with modern audiences.

Even Lavant's brief cameo as a roving theologist towards the finale can't spark the disappointingly bland Michael Kohlhaas into life - surely the most damning indictment of all.

A basically entertaining, but flimsy and shallow object, The Flash may not be the final entry in this long-beleaguered franchise, but it might as well be.

The jokes are far from fresh, yet the shock laughs are on a par with their inaugural outing and will undoubtedly appease fans of the original.

In many ways this is an adult Frozen with Gothic sensibilities by way of The Lord Of The Rings, making for a derivative pastiche of the past two decades' cinematic fantasy offerings.

Run All Night's saving grace is, unsurprisingly, its lead actor who remains as watchable as ever despite the material he has to work with.

Visually arresting and well-acted, Dogs shows promise but one would have hoped for some new tricks.

It feels more that Gemma Bovery goes through the motions of the novel, restricted by its own pretensions to meet high-brow literature.

What begins as an intriguing premise is gradually squandered, used as little more as background noise for comic tics and lazy characterisation.

Triple 9 becomes a victim of its own inane script. All the usual cop tropes are there - and that's part of the problem. Rarely does screenwriter Matt Cook throw anything at the page that hasn't been done better elsewhere.

On this evidence, maybe the eighties weren't so great after all.

Richard Wenk and Nic Pizzolatto's screenplay completely lacks the interpersonal vibrancy that a film like this needs and this is glaring given that it maintains the slow-build tension of the original.

Mary Shelley is a film at relentless pains to tell us how poetic and ethereal its heroine is, but without remotely grasping the political and philosophical underpinnings of her work.

Ozon's Frantz is, sadly, an underwhelming tale of a European union that didn't quite make it, its chocolate box sheen belying the emptiness at its heart.

That the drama should hinge on a series of bizarre novelistic coincidences and the irrational dopiness of the characters with whom we're supposed to empathise drains the film of realism and sends us into Mills & Boon territory.

Venom is a desperately confused piece of work which has only a few compensatory pleasures to offer along the way.

Sadly, Schroeder lacks the confidence required to elevate this average drama into something more substantial.

Caution should always be taken when branding any film about an 80-foot ape "illogical", but such is the gross stupidity of the film's movable feast - and the abominable dialogue spewing from their mouths - that you'll likely thank the primate deity himself every time one is crushed, impaled or bisected.

Of the many problems the film has, it’s the different plots that never quite bounce off each other.

With a weak structure and little chemistry, Fantastic Four proves itself to be a franchise that was better off lost in space.

All of this is intoned with such a humourless sense of self-importance that anyone who genuinely loves their music (such as this reviewer who [full disclosure] would rate Funeral and Neon Bible as two of the best albums of recent years) finds themselves alternately stuffing their fingers in their ears or, when it gets too excruciating, their elbows.

Ghost Protocol is action fluff, and on that level alone it works well enough.

A dry and surprisingly dull film, it is a comedy which doesn't induce a single laugh and a drama that doesn't engage emotionally or pull on the heartstrings at all.

Some actors can play anything, but asking super-posh and glamourous Seydoux to play dirt poor is an ask too far.

The film does have a few merits, not least the cast being on great form and the script is, on occasion, very funny.

Directed by Sean Anders, the film goes out of its way to contrive its central masculinity crises in ways that quickly settle for lame, lowest common denominator jokes.

A run-of-the-mill, plodding drama, the 'social realism' of which never feels particularly real.

Demons and Demons 2 are classic (if that’s the right term) examples of what happens when any pretence at style or subtlety goes out the window, in favour of in-your-face carnage which is so over-the-top that it is no longer remotely scary, but just plain nauseating.

A lacklustre, frustratingly inconsistent work of music history sugar-coating.

Much of this documentary sequel to to Thomas Balmès’ 2013 film Happiness is beautiful and humane, but is more often simplistic and questionable in its exploration of the impact of technology on a traditional society.

Ultimately, Anna and the Apocalypse ends up lacking the requisite bite to really make it fly as that quirky leftfield offering it so badly wants to be.

Even at ninety minutes Popstar feels too long. The funniest moments are the songs.

8 A.M. Metro is a sweet but ultimately shallow film whose final act ultimately finds depth and dimension too late to redeem its prior narrative shortcomings.

Despite a first half of great promise, the film is ultimately ground down by the endless suffering even as it bloats with a bizarre lurch into satirical fantasy.

Barnz's Cake could have been an intriguing look into the world of chronic pain and depression, but trying to be a jack-of-all-trades ruined the film and left it a master of none.

Accomplished as the filmmaking is, on a certain level the directors’ good intentions fall flat, resulting in an often clever but fundamentally flimsy comedy.

Seventh Son is indescribably disappointing because it could have been a refreshing treat for genre fans. After spending years in development, the final product is laughably abysmal, and perhaps worst of all, utterly forgettable upon viewing.

Neither player wins the audience's allegiance during the oft-strained game of seduction - much less convinces as a human being.

The fraudulent nature of the mystery makes Wonderstruck feel like a technical exercise: albeit one which is enlivened by some great visuals and excellent performances, particularly the wonderful Millicent Simmonds.

Bebjak’s film is far from bad and its three-tiered narrative is often compelling, buoyed by fine performances. But its treatment of women and shallow exploration of its themes sadly bring down its initial promise.

The visuals are undeniably impressive at times, as Henry parkours around the city or during a particularly tense shoot-out, but they also struggle with inevitable motion sickness of the frenetic handheld camerawork.

Aïnouz has eschewed the post-modern fun of Yorgos Lanthimos’ The Favourite for a much grimmer, darker vibe. This is the kind of film where torches most definitely gutter and men call out directives “on the orders of the king!” But for all the weighty gravitas of Simon Russell Beale as a conniving bishop and Eddie Marsan as a conniving noble bring to bear, the story never takes the history seriously enough either.

Unfortunately, despite its good central idea, Lapeyre and Wilson's execution is disappointingly poor.

Not exciting enough to be taken as straightforward thriller and not engaging enough for a dramatic character piece, Egoyan's The Captive is held back by its own lame script and a distinct lack of necessity.

Amirpour is a talented director with a wonderful eye but her style lacks substance and her obvious influences - the Mad Max franchise and the wonderful LQ Jones film A Boy and his Dog - are so superior as to almost completely nullify her derivative contribution to the genre.

Jarmusch has opted for a stumbling dead so indulgently pleased with itself that it resembles little more than a precocious home movie filled with familiar faced pals all of whom find the joke funnier than any audience will.

Up for Love lacks tact and substance but its leads make it a watchable, albeit bite-size, jaunt.

By the third act all the stone-stepping plot points that get us from set-piece A to set-piece B start to wear thin.

Exceedingly odd, but still pretty awful.

Ultimately, Benson's Eleanor Rigby disappears into the gap between its rom-com and drama stools.

As this semi-autobiographical film plods on, there is an unshakeable sense that in reaching for the stars, The Fabelmans instead lands somewhere more mediocre and disappointing.

The Commune is a film built around the intangibility and melancholy of childhood memories. What should have been a gritty work about a generation confronted with the implausibility of their beliefs is ultimately a banal and self-absorbed drama.

Depicting a fictional uprising in an unnamed Mexican city, New Order ably depicts the terror, confusion and violence of political revolution, but stops short of offering meaningful context.

As the credits roll on one of the most spectacular and unengaging films of the year, The Way of Water’s vision is as clear as mud. As Cameron has become more fascinated with the technology of storytelling, it seems he’s become less so by the actual storytelling.

It’s a shame that the real hope gap here is that between expectation and reality.

It isn't that it's hard going: it simply can't decide what it wants to be. [Cannes Version]