A far darker side of London is painted in bleakly realistic tones in City of Tiny Lights but, like its protagonist, Travis' film shoots from the hip, has a glint in its eye and packs a mean punch.

Piece by piece, Assassination Nation lays out and deconstructs the misogynistic assumptions that underpin many of our reactions to the girls’ behaviour.

It mostly holds together, but you'd have to hope that David Brent: Life on the Road represents the farewell tour.

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.

An entertaining-enough survival romp that at only 90 minutes long feels oddly slack.

It makes for entertaining viewing but its power is undermined by a ultimate lack of insight amongst the debauchery.

Beneath the video nasty hysteria lies a horror of substantial craft and skill. Its iconic synth theme is on a par with the work of Goblin, whilst its rich cinematography makes the very most of the film’s luscious locales.

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

The reticent interactions of Lanthimos’ trio of despairing souls mirrors the faded hopes of a transitory generation of dreamers, yet sadly Kinetta is too lost amongst the small, ostensibly insignificant gestures of its characters to truly grasp the larger movements occurring within the periphery.

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.

Intermittently entertaining and laudably short, for all its best intentions Cymbeline is cursed by doing again what others have done better.

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

It might be that there’s a meatier version of the film – a Carlos-style miniseries perhaps – but as it stands, shifting between a lighthearted caper and more consequential political tragedy, Wasp Network is an entertaining fumble.

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

Superficiality soaks the entire film.

Saturday Fiction certainly demands patience, shrouded at first in a smog of exposition.

This is a timely and necessary reminder of Trump's practices, but like Michael Moore's Michael Moore in Trumpland, this seems like another missed opportunity, a wry exasperated sigh, when we desperately need some full on rage.

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.

Behind the closed doors of this lakeside paradise it is clear that there’s trouble afoot.

A Jarmusch joint through and through, The Dead Don’t Die is as charming, affected and perplexing as we’ve come to expect from the long-time darling of US indie cinema.

By showing that self-worth and acceptance of one’s faults are to be valued, DuVernay has shown how empowerment can come from changing your own outlook, and perhaps adults as well as kids will be able to take something positive from this movie.

Sono throws everything at the screen – samurai battles, shootouts, Cage shouting and threatening to karate chops the locals – but it rarely provides anything but the sense you’re watching bizarre performance art in place of a good film.