Though the farce is occasionally funny, it's as bloated and windy as its comedy policeman Inspector Machin.

Côté employs a methodical reticence that often leaves the viewer guessing as to the significance of the images we are seeing.

The master of cerebral action cinema is back, and whatever lessons were learnt about the triumph of the human spirit during the making of Dunkirk, they were swiftly forgotten for this new piece of filmic flimflammery.

A largely groanworthy independent offering which is severely lacking in the pulpy charms it so desperately tries to emulate.

There's no doubt that the people that Fox singles out are worthy of his cameras attention, but it doesn't equate to a coherent feature film as much as an enormously wasted opportunity.

As an entry into the Scandi police procedural genre, The Keeper of Lost Causes disappoints. As a TV pilot, however, it's serviceable yet unremarkable; the kind of thing that you'd probably give a couple more episodes in the vain hope that things will pick up.

Though Anna and Otto's story is undoubtedly a fascinating example of the necessity of resistance and Perez is clearly a skilful director of actors, there's something anticlimactic about Alone in Berlin.

In giving rope to Bannon and hoping that he’ll hang himself, we’re instead forced to watch him fashion a lasso and play at being John Wayne, with Morris seemingly powerless to stop him.

Nathan Grossman charts her rise in this perfectly enjoyable but ultimately unpersuasive and shallow documentary.

The performances are fine across the board and Nørgaard keeps things moving efficiently, but this is stylish but televisual fare, ram-packed with familiar hardboiled and shopworn tropes.

There’s nary a memorable shot in the whole film. As for Ehrenreich’s performance, it’s honestly difficult to tell how good he is. Remarkably for a film called Solo, with so many characters each one nibbling at the scenes, he hardly has room to shine.

Sadly, Radioactive is as lifeless and inert as a rock, badly let down by a dismal script, and carrying all the half-life of an unfinished fish dinner.

Clooney only shows flashes of comic moxy, and everything is drowned in a now tiresome fetishizing of the 1950s aesthetic, with gizmos and supermarkets, office furniture and hairdos glossily remade.

A drab and airless affair, it effectively ignores the substantial political commentaries inherent in its story, and fails to land the emotional punches of the one it's intent on telling.

That’s not to say that it’s a complete wash-out. The film comes to vivid life during Remo’s ridiculous yet hugely entertaining training sequences, and there are flashes of inventiveness and personality elsewhere. It’s just a shame that more often than not, the film feels like a stunt performance showreel – complete with distracting pre-CG concealing wire work – with not enough investment in character or pacing.

After all is said and done, ‘The House that Lars Built’ is an impressive construction for an obnoxious purpose. In fact, the best criticism comes from Talking Heads and their song Psycho Killer: “You’re talking a lot but you’re not really saying anything.”

Directed by Jon Cassar, Forsaken is a humdrum Western which never demonstrates even the suggestion of a trick up its sleeve.

A grandiose title which suggests some kind of a smutty coming-of-age epic, but in reality only manages to deliver the grubby goods sporadically.

Mitchell's understanding of punk seems to be the brandishing of two or three cliches, shouting a lot and name-checking bands.

The film undoubtedly delivers, with all the monster thumping and building smashing that we could want, not to mention a not-so-surprise late appearance from a classic adversary.

As a comedy about contemporary American society it feels weirdly anachronistic, with an uninspired story told with little urgency or novelty.

Eternals should be commended for the positive creative decisions it has taken and in allowing at least some of Zhao’s directorial vision to creep in. For all its flaws, it is far from the worst entry in the MCU, but it is, perhaps, the first of Marvel’s films to be less than the sum of its parts.

This is a largely uninspired rehash which fails to improve upon the superior original, stuttering along until the demented, anything goes finale.

The tone is mournfully serious and this contrasts with the inherent silliness of vampires. Milo, with his glazed expression and apparent absence of affect utterings, is a compellingly dour presence but doesn't prove quite enough to prop the film up alone.

The characters of Jimmy's Hall aren't really characters as much as archetypes: the saintly mother, the sweetheart, the hero, the villain. This is the kind of film where people don't argue - they debate - speaking in lines from manifestos and creating an incongruity.

There is a tender story about paternal love and the desire to do right by one's family within A Second Chance but, regrettably, Bier's brand of melodrama derails it before it begins.

In the end, Justine is an enjoyable and often charming British film, but a messy third act and unnecessary contrivances leave it lost in the lanes.

The fact of the matter is that Refn has now become so predictably shocking that the truly shocking thing for him to do would be to make a film without attempting to shock.

Although the thriller like approach makes the unveiling of the story intermittently interesting, Human Capital stumbles on its blandly predictable, two dimensional characters and the implausible melodrama of its latter stages.

Grimsby fails in its satirical mission due to a hodgepodge of generic action and ill-advised comedy.

There's no doubting Hazanavicius' sincerity in trying to bring the Chechen conflict, the war crimes committed against the civilian community and the indifference of the international community to light, but it's this righteousness that gets in the way of The Search working as a film first and foremost.

Aside from its unremarkable presentation, Ben Is Back’s major hurdle, and the one that it never manages to clear, is that it’s yet another story of a rich, white young man wasting his future.

Spall and Redgrave are both magnificent, rising above the material in a way only talented actors can. One wonders what they could have done with more interesting and passionate material.

The Falling World contains moments of intrigue but a limp script and a cast of unengaging characters make this effort fall flat.

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.

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.

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.

Una Famiglia is the kind of social realism that isn't realistic and says little about society.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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’s most repugnant about Project X is its utter lack of moral consciousness, with the overriding message being that such disregard for property and community deserves little more than a slap on the wrists – a message that couldn’t be more ill-advised in a time of such amplified social despondency.

It is dull, cynical and utterly mirthless.

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.

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

Eaten Alive is plagued by Hooper’s endlessly strange directorial choices, particularly when it comes to getting performances from his leads. His efforts confound rather than disturb.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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,