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.

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.

Joy doesn’t reinvent the wheel, but it satisfyingly brings these stories to the screen in a typically prosaic, no-fuss British manner.

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 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.

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

The film never rises above its clichés.

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

All the entertaining villainy has the effect of making Andy’s quest – to shape her new role as Runway’s features editor into something truly worthwhile – look even duller, and her romance with nice-guy Peter (Patrick Brammall from Colin from Accounts) completely pointless.

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.

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.

Glossy, grotesque, and intriguing even as you hate yourself for getting sucked into it, this isn’t an awful film. It just shouldn’t exist.

A fresh Stephen King adaptation should be exciting. It’s a shame, then, that Salem’s Lot – a small-town vampire chiller set in 1970s Maine – has absolutely zero new ideas or even a particularly frightening take on the old story.

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.

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.

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

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

It quickly becomes difficult to care about any of it.

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

The film’s inability to find a single tone – comic, cathartic or otherwise – makes it feel like a failure on all fronts, and the constant intrusion of loud, obvious pop needle-drops (and even a full disco-dancing sequence) don’t help.

This dazzling array of top tier actors have to spend most of their time discussing how bonkers the totally sane Lo seems, and so they never get past two-dimensional characterisation no matter how hard they try.