The script, credited to no more than three screenwriters (one of which being Vanessa Davies, who came up with the idea), is predictable and innocuous, yet peppered with comedic moments that are deserving of a chuckle or two, if only for the way they’re played by the talented cast.

The film‘s sparse narrative exists to simply connect one action set-piece to the next, with sporadic breathing space in between. It’s the kind of undemanding entertainment which was enthusiastically lapped up by viewers during the early video rental era.

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.

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.

Asking little of its stars, and even less of any watching audience, Get Hard is a familiar studio comedy that barely succeeds in its attempt to drown out a thin plot with jokes that will appeal to people who have seen a lot of the actors' previous films. Perhaps the offensive thing about it is that we've seen this all before.

Alice Through The Looking Glass is at its middling best when Wasikowska is at the reins.

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.

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.

Loaded with unremarkable statements on moral resolve and brimming with arrogance, this desultory study of grief and the need for an artist to suffer in order to create great art is as hollow and throwaway as the redundant platitude it derives its name from.

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.

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

Featuring McClure, Cushing and Monroe, these films based on novels by Edgar Rice Burroughs highlight that author’s penchant for adventure stories.

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

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.

With a ludicrous plot that wouldn’t look out of place in a 80s American Saturday morning kids cartoon, this is the very epitome of B-movie zaniness.

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

Heartstrings, prepared to be tugged at vigorously. Ma Ma is a quintessential tear-jerking melodrama that leans into its genre conventions heavily while still keeping an airy beauty to its characters and vision.

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.

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.

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.

Even with many of the original voice cast involved it's a tired effort that sadly - and it really is sad - doesn't live up to expectations.

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.

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

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

Where The Happytime Murders excels is in its humour, because it’s very, very funny. But more than that, it’s filthy. Utterly, gloriously, unapologetically, deeply, darkly, sexually filthy.

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

This third entry is undoubtedly the crowning glory in a series of films that could hardly be described as classics of the genre, yet are never anything less than gloriously entertaining.

It has to be said that Van Sant is not above doing one for the studio but quite what sins he had committed to be made to make this pile of sub-Nicolas Sparks tripe will be beyond most.

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.

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.

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

Exceedingly odd, but still pretty awful.

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

The Whispering Star may not be Sono at his most assertive - it certainly suffers in its middle section from the lack of thrust - but its imbued with tremendous resonance.

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.

Szabolcs Hadju's It's Not the Time of My Life is an engrossing, poignant and often very funny study of marriage, family and child rearing.

Though Day may remain silent behind his camera, an omnipotent narrative voice lends The Islands and the Whales a folkloric, ethereal quality that alludes to the importance of legend and tradition for the Faroese people who for 1000 years, since the time of the Vikings, have "relied on the seas for its livelihood."

Once we start to understand Ayka’s life and reasons for behaving how she does, the film gains tragic dimensions and its humanist voice grows into a desperate cry.

Kelly eschews talking heads or expert testimony, and only rarely to characters flesh out the skeleton provided by occasional intertitles. When this style is employed for a single, short-term conflict, it can be incredibly powerful (just think of Sergei Loznitsa’s Maïdan) but Kelly’s film effectively drops the audience in situ at specific events within a much broader six-year framework without any context.

The performances by the lead cast are exceptional, and alongside a rich script, and Kokotajlo’s almost philosophical directorial approach, Apostasy is an incredibly moving drama offering an authentic glimpse into the Jehovah’s Witness community.

It’s an enjoyable but static viewing experience, where even the tales of wild parties, disco dancing and sex become worn out through overuse.

Unveiling personality traits previously unknown, alongside footage that’s captivating to observe, this lovingly constructed documentary will leave you with a fresh appetite to revisit Bergman’s filmography in as much detail as presented throughout.

Pit Stop certainly couldn’t be accused of being high art, but it’s a helluva lot of fun, offering an entertaining snapshot of that schlocky, drive-in era, complete with an unexpectedly dark ending which flies in the face of the usual heroic cinematic conventions.

Director Ben Mullinkosson noted the cinematic potential of the volatile dynamic between his two cousins and, in Don’t Be A Dick About It, renders it lovingly to create a charming and often hilarious documentary-comedy hybrid.

Perfect 10 is an acutely observed and beautifully shot coming-of-age story. It is also a tender, fastidiously constructed portrait of working-class girlhood that shimmers with angst, vulnerability, and compassion.

Never has the banality of the plight of refugees been laid out so plainly as in this heartbreaking, Kafkaesque documentary.

Don’t Click is anti-torture porn, a rebuke to mindless muck for the sake of entertainment. It’s likely, though, Don’t Click will be quickly accused of being exactly what it’s rallying against.

Second Spring is a film about endurance and acceptance, tackling its subject matter with quiet poise where a lesser film might have fallen to mawkish sentiment.

A Ghost Waits is an unexpectedly heartfelt gem of micro-budgeted filmmaking.

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.

Made with defiant conviction, this is a fearless, unflinching, but above all compassionate piece of documentary filmmaking that cares deeply about the people whose plight it tells. Enough is enough, it is time for change.

Following in the footsteps of legendary documentary Paris Is Burning, Pier Kids is a poignant and chaotic study of the community of young black gay men and trans women who congregate at the piers of Hudson River Park, New York City.

What distinguishes Skin to Skin from its counterpart is its subject, a man utterly dedicated to his craft and to its rich cultural traditions.

Oyate isn’t an extraordinary documentary, but in telling the story of some of the United States’ most marginalised and persecuted people, it is certainly an important one.

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

Director Akay is not messing around with his disgusted assessments of conservative Turkey in 2020.

In its surreal rendering of space and character, Fingers in the Wind offers enough ambition, intelligence and unvarnished authenticity to warrant recommendation.

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.

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.

Religious allegories, monochrome photography and folk horror trappings will draw in viewers as much as its meandering contemplations and languorous pacing may test their patience.

The components are all here for a compelling psychological drama, led by two excellent performances, but a conflation between narrative obfuscation with thematic depth undermines Esme, My Love’s final emotional impact.

Move Me No Mountain is an emotionally and thematically inert experience.

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.

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.