Every bit as contrived as the leading lady's hairstyles, and rather less technically impressive, this is still trashy fun.

Deliberately provocative, infuriatingly melodramatic, this is a film that begs not to be taken seriously, and requires a ready suspension of moral discernment for maximum enjoyment.

Holmes’ wholesome charm keeps the movie afloat, but only just.

Its heart is in the right place, but some lively performances from the better-than-you’d-expect ballers-turned-actors can only paper over a thin, cliché-riddled script so much.

It's hard to imagine that even a documentary on the apparently harmonious marriage of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward -a union established in 1958 and still going strong - could be duller than this stodgy addition to the Merchant-Ivory menu of good taste.

Even worse than it sounds.

Braindead and done to death, this somehow remains a relatively fun ride.

Figgis, reunited with Gere after Internal Affairs, went through the Hollywood mangle on this one, and despite flashes of insight, anything worthwhile gets lost in a script that strains too hard for truth and provokes unfortunate big laughs.

How did such a dream project on paper turn out so wrong. It should remain one of the great mysteries of cinema. The less said about this one, the better. For Spielberg completists only.

Despite the odd moment of visual bravura, this mockumentary is too aware of its own satirical daring. Consequently, it's never as dark, dangerous or amusing as it thinks - and the soundtrack is diabolical.

Despite the usually dependable cast, this is a slow and ever-so-slightly dull affair. Try Bogart's 1955 original instead.

Painting from a typical kaleidoscopic canvas Noé crafts a brain-bendingly metaphysical trip that definitely won't be everyone's cup of tea.

The Boss Baby is hopped up on energy but never harnesses it effectively. There are laughs and heart buried in this idea somewhere. Shame the film is too hyperactive to find them.

Mind you, Eastwood went on the star with an orang-utan, twice, so this is only his third maddest film. Although, it could be his dullest. Which was one thing no one would of expected of this madcap enterprise, born of a what-the-heck attitude from its macho stars — that it would struggle so hard to be fun.

The resulting portrait seems cruel at times, and Bingenheimer's little-boy-lost expression can be heartbreaking.

There's lo-fi charm in the musical numbers and heartfelt turns from the young cast but the story drifts along without offering much that we haven't seen before.

Aniston deports herself competently, here showing us nothing she hasn't on Friends, and Bacon is pretty much on autopilot as the company stud but it is Mohr who actually shines, skilfully giving an underwritten role a genuinely deft sense of nobility and charm.

A salt-of-the-earth tale that’ll play well in red states, but offers little spark.

A fairly dappy and overlong attempt to turn Prince the then emergent rock-funk superstar into a movie star.

The beginning of Steve Martin's non-funny comedies. Ephron should know better as well.

It's plus points are few and far between - fantastic music, well worth buying the soundtrack for, and the occasional Moranis and Martin magic we would expect throughout - but such rare glimpses merely underline the sheer sogginess of the rest of the movie.

Nothing Landis can do makes up for a limp plot bolstered by distinctly Cannonball Run-ish car smashes and an irritating sprog. And the movie's not even out in the year 2000.

Performances, plot and landings are nailed down, but there's not enough invention here for the film to achieve cult status.

Less a reboot, more a hit-and-miss cover-version. The cast are game, Applegate especially, but the laughs flatten like a deflated tyre.

There is fun to be had.... But it essentially feels like an overlong, mega-budgeted episode of a Saturday-morning serial.

At a time when television is easier to make than films, it's a pity that a quart of plot in a pint-sized pot is largely to blame for this muddled misfire, which wastes some promising ideas and an impressive cast.

Tom and Anna are so thinly sketched that by the time the painfully slow set-up starts to pay off, we no longer care who does what to whom, or why.

Erivo’s impressive central performance is frequently undercut by an all-too-conventional approach. Hopefully in a few years Tubman can get the definitive biopic she deserves. Sadly, this isn’t it.