Terrific performance alone can't mask the lack of originality.

A poorly written, directed and acted imitation of the first. Not funny, not clever and, crucially, not cool.

The big screen was where none of them had gone before, and you can tell.

That this is just about passable as a divorced parent’s weekend treat is down to Roberts’ charm and the timeless appeal of Nancy herself.

Like too much filmed space opera, this is wonderfully imaginative when it comes to costume, art direction, special effects, spaceships and incidental alien creatures but stuck with old-hat character types and a resolutely unspecial storyline. It’s frequently entertaining, but as much for its terrible moments as its inspired touches.

Not quite ‘Ready Player One Star’, but this is an odd duck: a Black Mirror-ish concept played for laughs, which ends up getting tangled up in its own code.

An unfortunate misfire that has the odd moment of charm and the odder chuckle, but otherwise isn’t worth keeping up with.

This  Blithe Spirit dilutes the original’s heady cocktail, serving up a sugary punch rather than a dry martini.

With so-so performances and an immensely dumb conceit, this is snow Christmas classic. Still, it’s less naughty, more ice than we might have expected. 

The blood and gore is all present and correct, but the focus on Kramer's vulnerability and human side sits at odds with his awful judgmentalism. Let monsters be monsters.

Despite good moments and likable leads, this lacks both heart and humour in a confection that smacks of the over-familiar.

A premise neutered by daft supernatural shenanigans, which raise as many questions as they answer.

Less pompous than Pet Sematary, this has moments of trashy vigour but is scuppered by a consistently wretched script, Mary Lambert's knee-jerk direction and the usual redundant sequel air of utter pointlessness.

Loud, noisy, flashy but too rarely chilling.

Now You Three Me, as it should be called, offers ample 2010s nostalgia, but not quite enough brainless fun lands successfully. Put this rabbit back in the hat.

This is amiable enough and perhaps one shouldn’t expect anything more from the team that brought you Police Academy (writer Hugh Wilson) and Major League (director Ward). What really lets this down, though, is the uninspired plot and one-dimensional characters. While it’s true that this was never going to be a high-brow evening at the pictures, the air of familiarity it leaves behind proves to be a major disappointment.

Despite the compelling high concept — and some epic action set-pieces — there’s not quite enough meat on the bones of this dystopian follow-up to make it truly worthy of its predecessor. 

Elba's reunites with Luther director Sam Miller to lesser effect in a workaday home-invasion thriller.

Badly scripted, hackneyed, cliched, deaf/blind comedy.

A few laughs come from Alec Baldwin as Mom’s posturing, deceitful boyfriend, but attempts at inserting risqué modern humour sit uneasily with the playfully innocent surrealism of Seuss’ famous characters.

A sci-fi horror dimmer than the dark side of the moon.

A monumentally misconceived sequel, Escape from L. A. is the huge, shonky blemish on the magnificent history of John Carpenter and Kurt Russell.

According to Phillips, the 'Part II' in the title is a nod to the second "Godfather," which matched the genius of its forerunner. Ironically, his own sequel offer is one you should refuse.

Silly and aimed squarely at the younger crowd, Captain Underpants has enough spirit to be entertaining. Just don’t expect it to work all the time.

Jade tries so hard to be a serious, lush noir but, like the cheap sex it revels in, it is ultimately a hollow, anti-climactic experience.

The votes are in, and it’s official: this largely unfunny paean to Eurovision is a waste of some serious talent. At least some of the songs are decent.

There is some fun to be had if you're in an undemanding frame of mind.

The leads work hard and there’s an attempt to add fun via cheesy music and Salma Hayek, but hackneyed dynamics, half-baked action sequences and saying “m#th&rf$ck*r” does not a Shane Black make.