H is for Hawk wants desperately to make you feel the raw blankness of grief and the healing power of nature, but in the end feels more like a kids’ wildlife documentary: beautiful but bloodless.

I’m not convinced that the heavy violence is entirely warranted, but the whole thing is at least unfailingly kitsch, and when the storylines merge they do so seamlessly.

Song Sung Blue’s best moments are when it focuses on its beautifully ordinary love story.

Goodbye June is preoccupied with sentiment in a way that might feel great for a two-minute Christmas ad, but just doesn’t work for an entire film. Still, Winslet is a confident director and Anders has an eye for relationships.

The film never rises above its clichés.

This hybrid never feels quite cohesive enough, the pace somehow both rushed and yet too slow. One feels Vanderbilt’s panic at the enormity of the topic. That’s not to say there isn’t a lot to admire.

The Bear’s Jeremy Allen White plays Springsteen in a performance that hits all the right beats, including some enjoyably sweaty, raspy musical set pieces (White sings the numbers himself), without ever elevating the role to anything greater.

The script for unconventional romantic comedy A Big Bold Beautiful Journey spent some time on Hollywood’s Black List, where well-liked but not yet picked up screenplays sometimes linger for years. It’s a shame it didn’t just stay there.

Honey Don’t! is another misfire, feeling bizarrely like an ersatz Tarantino. Given the Coens’ track record of making some of the smartest crime films in recent memory, it’s troubling how flat this one feels. I sincerely hope Ethan Coen hasn’t lost his knack.

Caught Stealing’s zany mix of comedy and drama tests your patience at times – though its crackerjack sexual tension is hard to argue with, and Austin Butler is a genuine, stop-and-take-notice screen presence. His charisma may well hold the whole inchoate package together, as he stammers and shrugs his way through the electric energy of the city.

It quickly becomes difficult to care about any of it.

The Thursday Murder Club never nails its tone, forever feeling like it’s still in rehearsal rather than down to the final edit.

There’s too much focus on disturbing the viewer rather than illuminating anything for them. Bring Her Back is a film that knows how to provoke, but not how to provide much insight.

The film feels limp, palpably too dependent on its source to emerge as its own thing. To convey the messages it wants to convey, it needed to work much harder to be more than just a pretty painting.

I salute Gunn, who was poached from Marvel, for trying to infuse this reboot with humour and vitality, dragging it out of a gloom that no longer suits viewers plagued by enough real-world problems.

Boyle still has an eye for suspenseful action, and much of it is breathtaking.

It’s a film that could do with a little more feeling overall – and more fury, too.

There is monologuing, there is pacing the floor, there is possibly too much wordiness for what is ultimately a visual medium. But its characters and the performances are intriguing enough to keep the suspense going.

The twisty machinations are a bit too familiar, the pacing a tad too glacial before Odysseus’s revenge finally happens, the performances uniformly good but rather self-serious.

It’s a bog-standard, eat-the-rich message. But it does at least give the otherwise ridiculous unicorn story something to hang its horn on.

Even if the film can feel airless at times, with long, solid shots of the survivors’ banal everyday lives, it does have much to say on the foibles of mankind – and the way society may very feasibly backslide into, well, The End. That, to me, is worth giving a chance.

The Monkey is surprisingly lacking in any good ideas. In fact, it’s the worst thing a horror film can be: boring.

There is a lot to garner from Anderson’s performance as a woman who has spent her life as the vessel of other people’s lust and projection; that is the main attraction of The Last Showgirl. But without the narrative scaffolding or depth to surround her character, Coppola’s film can often feel like a message in search of a movie.

This is not some deification story, even though it often regards Dylan’s capacity for musical storytelling with something akin to worship. Mangold steers the ship into harbour competently, even if I have some niggling questions about why the Dylan myth requires yet another movie.

It is, indeed, exceedingly tasteful, but without any narrative oomph, and some problematic characterisation to boot.

Jenkins is the kind of talent who can turn his hand to almost anything and Mufasa is a respectable film as a result.

I didn’t want this movie to be dull – I would have settled for enjoyably bad – but unfortunately, it doesn’t even manage that.

To enjoy Rumours you will have to accept that despite its opening, its aim is not The Thick Of It-style political skewering, but rather bonkers, absurdist nihilism. In the apocalypse, it turns out, nothing means much at all.