If "Crash" set your teeth on edge, book in at the dentist's before seeing this one.

Spiral makes an admirable stab at defibrillating an old franchise — but ultimately wastes its stars, caught in the same bear-trap of a formula that befell earlier sequels.

Unless you pine for second-tier Mel Brooks, you'll find more laughs in the Old Testament itself.

Andersen makes a far from inspiring guide, intoning his humourless points in a dry-as-powder monotone.

Does to the medieval era what Cage's Wicker Man did to Anthony Shaffer. Hokum and not in a good way.

Despite John Cena’s best efforts, Ricky Stanicky is a comedy that delivers nothing but tedium, wasting a clever idea by repeating the same jokes over and over.

It's less a film than a series of skits exhumed from the Reynolds original.

Borderline dreadful waste of potential.

Solid performances can’t keep this from being a tonally erratic disappointment. Here’s hoping the next Hoover adaptation is a little less regrettable.

This should have been Soderbergh gold. Instead it is mostly unengaging and dull, proof positive that they don't make them like they used to.

The jingoism is blindingly awful, but by the time of the showdown, the film has descended into an unaware parody of itself.

The building may be taller than The Towering Inferno and the stakes may be higher than those faced by John McClane in Die Hard, but in comparison to both, Skyscraper is little more than a cinematic bungalow.

A genuine disappointment from an intriguing, potentially even subversive premise. It’s another commanding performance to add to Monroe’s oeuvre, but this Cradle is more frustrating and forgettable than it is thrilling.

On paper it looks like a gem – roaring 20s setting, verbal fireworks and a silly sport in its rude infancy. In practice, it's way off the pace, far too slow for its screwball pretensions and the kind of film that confuses pastiche with period detail.

Mark Felt is a lacklustre staging of a fascinating episode in recent US history. Despite Neeson’s strong presence, this is a deep throat that never finds its voice.

Cliché-ridden and full of plot-holes.

Bond meets Star Wars in one of the series' sillier outings.

It’s been done before, and better. With pigs.

As an origin story that’s all origins and no story, there’s a hollow, stale feeling to this occasionally admirable attempt to Nolanise Marvel’s dysfunctional family.

Entrapment ambles lazily through its set-up and features only one (admittedly impressive) stretch of white-knuckle daredevilry as our heroes dangle off the tallest building in the world (which is in Kuala Lumpur, incidentally).

Though its core concept is executed well, Black Crab’s dour tone, shallow writing and derivative plot-beats make for a movie experience that leaves you as cold as the ice its characters are forced to skate on.

A strangely drab adaptation of Diderot's much racier novel.

Despite the all-star trio and the rare joke that lands, Going In Style never hits its stride as a warm-hearted crime caper.

Convincingly sozzled performances but, like Bukowski's poetry, there is little meaningful here to take away.

Despite a handful of cool moments, The Killer’s Game turns out to be one not worth playing.

The truth is, it’s not very good – and entirely without scares. But we dare you to watch it without unleashing a few unintended laughs along the way.

A solid performance let down by a script that cherry-picks the facts and ultimately tells us less than we already know. Watch Asif Kapadia’s Amy instead.

A handsome murder mystery with a neat literary twist and an impressive turn from Harry Melling, but which is overcast by the gloominess of its protagonist and the implausibility of its revelations.

About the dumbest movie Clint Eastwood ever put his name to.

At once explaining too much and not enough, this middle segment of the trilogy fails to amp up the stranger danger. Perhaps the scariest thing is the end title: To be continued…

Never content with one cliché when it can shovel on ten, Romeo Is Bleeding — to borrow a quote from the film's own press notes - "would be a comedy if it weren't a tragedy".

A humdrum remake of a crackerjack thriller, this never gets out of second gear despite a classy cast and intriguing premise. Credit to Dean Norris for playing a character called Bumpy with an entirely straight face.

Pretty much cardboard, down to the heroic patriotic speeches, and less distinctive even than last year's scarcely stellar "Skyline," which trashed the same city. Things blow up good and Eckhart is a classier actor than his role warrants, but we've all been here before.

Funny and occasionally original, this suffers only from too close a resemblance to its rock forefather.

Let Him Go starts languid and builds to a tonally at-odds finale, with its stars looking curiously unengaged. This is what happens when slow burning never really catches fire. Still, Lesley Manville is on fire as a memorable backwoods-y crime boss.

The setting is glorious and Dormer is on form, but the scares can’t match either.

Credit goes only to its two stars that this is watchable, because the film is a derivative hodge-podge unworthy of their charisma. Just rewatch The Mummy and cut out the middle man.

After the disastrous "The House Of The Spirits," Bille August should know from experience to leave good novels well alone.

Flat and unfunny, this merits a second star based entirely on Scott’s cameo. Kev, get thee to a typewriter. You’re so much better than this.

This feels bigger and more cinematic than the first film, and sees a progression in the lives of the characters. But many of the jokes are beyond broad, and the Middle Eastern stereotypes are shockingly cack-handed.

A shambling, ponderous mess that aims to be a trashy cult classic and merely ends up in the trash - Fichtner aside. And, in the biggest disappointment of all, there's not even that much angry driving in it.

Little more than schmaltz and pitchfork-handed fisticuffs.

Flat as day-old beer.

An uneven thriller that would have been better served aiming for a lighter tone.

Brilliant in Prada, as a princess and now as a prison psychiatrist, Anne Hathaway brightens this limp genre exercise that mistakenly prioritises B-movie thrills over more nuanced character interplay.

It’s neither funny nor charming enough, proving a disappointing treatment of fabulous source material.

You’ll be jolted a couple of times, but these aren’t scares that will stay with you. How about retiring “based on a true story” in favour of “based on a good story”?

Fans of the book will be pleased that most of its highlights remain intact - including Dilbeck covering himself with Vaseline - but overall this is at best patchy, and, more damagingly, not funny.

The pair muster some chemistry but it's the big musical moments - including a gusto-packed Soft Cell riff - that impress most. Sadly, the pair's romance is predictable and the plot unfolds with all the freshness of a two day old fish supper.

A brilliantly high-concept title and some decent gore aside, you're better off watching the version in your head. It will be infinitely more fun and have markedly improved production values.

A strong cast and impressive action sequences can’t find subtleties or surprises to enliven a rote period disaster movie. It hits the right points, but mechanically.

Throw in the blatant signposting of every plot turn and mood shift, and what could have been a gripping tale becomes hammy and overdone.

It's hard to believe that a bunch of scrappy kids would really be scared of a big dog, which leaves the premise of this film floundering. However the kids prove to be plucky enough to give the film some kind of motivation but the direction lacks in humour or excitement.

Running at just over four hours, it is as spectacular, lush and extravagant as the studio would have liked its audience to believe. But it also has moments of mind-numbing boredom as the plot,– slowed by extraneous dialogue, drags from Egypt to Rome.

Strays slightly from the formula and therefore loses some of its mindless fun credentials.

It’s an audacious swing — but ultimately a miss from a pair of filmmakers who know exactly what they want to say, and haven’t yet mastered how best to say it.

Interesting misfires from Wong Kar-wai and Steven Soderbergh barely manage to atone for the seedy muddle concocted by eightysomething Michelangelo Antonioni, who mocks his own reputation for existential ellipsis with his voyeuristic vignette.

Some sparks of comedy and fun but largely a flat and unrewarding comedy.

Although it flickers to life at times, King Arthur: Legend Of The Sword devolves into a jumbled affair, weighed down by confusing supernatural elements and a lazy reliance on visual effects.

In spite of a catalogue of downsides, including clunky dialogue, fuzzy morals and preposterous story lines, G.I. Jane does offer a perverse level of enjoyment.

23 Walks is romance of the gentlest kind. Steadman and Johns are likeable but the writing doesn’t deliver characters that compel and convince. But for dog lovers, it’s pooch porn.

Pfeiffer's performance supersedes any of the material, but the rest of the film is a seething mass of clich's despite the "true story" origins.

One of the most talk driven summer flicks in living memory, an out of sorts Howard transforms what should be a fun treasure trail romp into something inert and borderline dreary.

There's some likable energy to the performances and a strong soundtrack, but the lack of sustained dancing make this more of a nostalgic fantasy than a proper musical, whereas 'Shagging' itself seems far too complicated to catch on.

A mushy mix of sentiment and some off-key singing lets the air out of this beloved musical's limo tires.

It Is In Us All is slight, sombre, and something of a slog, but features another strong turn from Cosmo Jarvis – and is still a positive indication of Campbell-Hughes’ potential behind the camera.

Union is committed and convincing, but the script apparently never met a cliche it didn't want to adopt wholesale. This offers some thrills and considerable pace, but never enough narrative force.

Armour-clanging, cloak-swishing tosh with okay battles, terrible dialogue and sadly little horror or heroism. Nowhere near as bad as I, Frankenstein – but what is?

Critiquing the very thing it also sets out to do, Genie is the movie equivalent of a dog chasing its own tail, but is (barely) saved from the wrapping-paper pile by the amiable chemistry of its stars.

Although the vocal performances often amuse and delight, the overall design is charmless.

Further complicating the already indecipherable lore of the first film, The Boss Baby 2: Family Business is nice to look at but unfunny, unengaging and unintelligible. May it grow up soon.

Not even Halle Berry’s presence can enliven this stale sports film-family drama mash-up. By the end of it, the barrage of clichés leaves you black and blue.

Slick but forgettable, Fuqua’s suicide squad is a macho posse movie that could use a jab of fun. It’s The Magnificent Seven, but the “magnificent” is silent.

Captures the brash boldness of the novel, but not the literary wit. A misguided affair.

It looks attractive, and is enlivened somewhat by the soundtrack's obligatory disco dinosaurs, but those expecting any real insight into the 70s club scene will come away hugely disappointed.

Stone's film could have allowed political voices that are rarely present to get a fair, and critical hearing. Instead he near smooches them to death.

There’s a little bit more polish this time, but for all the talented people involved, Let There Be Carnage still has the whiff of a turd in the wind. 

For crying out loud, Marcus -- all you had to do was have Vikings fight Indians! How hard was that?

Despite good moments and an ambition to reach for the profound, Life Itself settles for trite, sentimental and patience testing. A killer cast deserve better.

Walking a fine line between being a masterpiece and a dogs dinner, this movie strays into the latter, though giving some historical illumination to the movie-making process as it was in the 1950s. A white elephant.

It’s tastefully shot and Crowe commits to the horrors of Jake’s illness (his seizures are upsetting) but the writing lacks depth, the character psychology is dime-store Freud and the performances are variable.

Despite the odd fun bit of bloodshed, Halloween Kills is mostly tired, tedious and an insult to everything John Carpenter got right first time round.

Occasionally fun, always pretty, completely a mess, Casanova never quite finds its footing.

This swords-and-sorcery throwback has little imagination on display, instead doubling down on computer-generated flair to pass the time.

With a better story, director and support cast, Martin could have made Clouseau his own. Still, it's not as bad as the one with Roberto Benigni.

This is not the messiah. Nor is it a very naughty boy. There was an opportunity for a truly original spin on the so-called Greatest Story Ever Told here, but The Carpenter’s Son pulls its punches to make a rather rote horror that amounts to little.

It's the thriller aspect that most lets the film down, failing to truly engage or offer enough plausible red herrings to send your mind whirring through different theories as to what could have happened. The twists rarely, if ever, have the impact that were intended.

Charming performances from Bailey and Page can’t make up for the crushing levels of cringe. More an underwhelming pasta ready-meal than a fine-dining experience.

Ruinously prioritising chic over content, this is intellectually and stylistically shallow when it should have been dynamic and compelling.

Minus a couple of brisk, black laughs, this hollow remake botches the twists and sucks the fun right out of its feisty source.

It creates a seasonal glow, but inconsistencies keep Fred Claus off the ‘Nice’ list this Christmas.

Not bootiful.

Gauged on a count of wit or originality this doesn't even register.

Amused, maybe - but you won't be seduced.

An opportunity to exploit childhood nocturnal fears is missed in a second-rate horror.

A crushing disappointment for fans and a scuppered opportunity for a cinematic event. That the first book has been so mishandled doesn’t bode well for the (already greenlit) more complicated ones to come.

This plays very much like a standard biopic, lacking the dangerous spirit of the movie that inspired it.

An energetic but erratic film that straddles about a dozen genres at once, none of them that successfully. One for those who like oodles of odd.