As an awards-bait biopic, Christy is basically solid; as another chapter in the star text of a soon-to-be-28-year-old woman basically no one on the internet can ever be normal about, it’s interesting – and also, given the entrepreneurial Sweeney’s social-media savvy, quite a canny bit of positioning.

While there’s a sense that the thesis here lacks originality, there are enough audiovisual flights of fancy to keep the cheeky intellectual jiggery-pokery ticking along nicely.

There are points here where it feels as if Linklater was trying to make a gender-switched version of Fassbinder’s tragic The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant, but without really leaning into the forceful bitterness and agency of the protagonist, and opting to have the text make a more profound point about the precarious nature of power and influence.

Though not beyond salvaging as The Carpenter’s Son offers some moments of biblical horror, including an Hieronymus Bosch-like depiction of hell, it doesn’t succeed in pushing past mild discomfort. There is still not enough to drag it down into truly blasphemous depths.

In what is essentially a long, barrelling chase movie, the action is relentless, and has little respect for the limits of physiological suffering let alone physical laws.

The Ice Tower is as fragile and delicate as a snowflake, as disorientating and mysterious as adolescence, and as dark as a winter’s night. For it is a shadowy frío-noir, complete with femme fatale, even as its elusive, edgy narrative is passed down, like keepsake beads or diffracting crystals, from generation to generation.

With no substance and no style to be found, all that is left in Wicked: For Good is two actresses, doing more than just belting their hearts out by giving genuinely compelling performances.

It’s uncomfortable and often disturbing viewing, but Osit’s unsentimental, self-critical and refreshingly thoughtful approach makes Predators one of the most valuable entries into a saturated genre, prioritising ethics over emotion.

To add insult to injury, just when things are finally about to get nasty, a character effectively sits us down for a tedious exposition dump that explains the whats, whys and hows of it all. It’s this very lack of trust in its viewers that comes as the film’s most upsetting development.

Like close-up magic, the Now You See Me films function best when you soak in the vibe rather than get close enough to unpick any machinations of magic trickery.

Alpha is as thorny as her previous two features, but there’s something lonely and longing here too.

There’s a few decent performances in the mix (the kids especially), and Cumberbatch goes all-in (and then some) on the concept, but otherwise this flails as saccharine self-help cinema without any real sense of authentic human behaviour.

The brash message of the film may amount to little more than ​“smash the system”, but it’s a message that Wright has ignored in a film that sorely lacks for imagination and edge.

Vanderbilt seems to have his intentions in the right place, but the delivery has all the substance of Crowe’s prosthetic belly.

It’s a testament to the smartness of this casting that Jay Kelly works as well as it does, even if the echos of Hollywood mythmaking are unavoidable.

Throughout, Dragonfly plays with perspective, fascinated by the potential of others and what people are capable of. However, the film’s final note is deeply cynical, as if it is embarrassed by the sincerity of its genuine and vital message.

Fonzi doesn’t sugarcoat this tale, nor does she attempt to make it feel entirely like a piece of activist filmmaking that’s entirely serving a political cause (even if, in many aspects, it is). Yet through her canny pacing and shot choices, she elevates this material far above what might have been expected of it.

Predators: Badlands might not be on the level of Trachtenberg’s 2022 Predator spin-off, Prey, but it has its pleasures. It’s a smart kind of stupid that hits the lowest common denominator in terms of story as a means of revelling in the strangeness of the world building. Each scene serves its purpose and the movie, running not much longer than 100 minutes, never wears out its welcome.

The result is a melancholic, Terrence Malick-ian vision of a place that is brutal, beautiful and forever lost to time.

Even to a viewer who’s not particularly taken by their idiosyncratic and knowingly difficult sound, it’s a pleasure to be in the company of two people who are so proficient at articulating their inner feelings.

After a strong opening drag, there’s the feeling that the film doesn’t really have anything more to say, its revelations seeming fairly paltry in the scheme of things.

Ramsay articulates the inarticulate, here through her saturated blues, yellows, browns and greens, the colours of grief and sickness and rot…but also new life, summer skies, and hope.

It’s a film that is firmly grounded in the geopolitical specificity of Cluj, exploring ethnic tensions, economic inequalities, legacies of totalitarianism, the brutality of capitalism and the destructiveness of real estate – yet it’s through this local context that Jude gets to dig deep into the contradictions of our globalised, neoliberal world as the all-pervasive cultural and moral rot continues to spread.

At its best it cuts between historical footage and new material and achieves the awed emotional resonance of connecting history with the present.

Perhaps it’s his fidelity to this team of collaborators that creates such a fluid vision; much like the honey bees that Teddy lovingly tends to in his garden, every artist moves in service of a grand design.

Stuckmann’s debut may borrow from the found footage boom of noughties horror, but like many of today’s horror films, it suffers from explanation-fatigue.

Even if it does eventually crumble to pieces, it’s a really strong thriller for the large majority of its runtime.

At its heart is Tessa Thompson, giving a performance so commanding that it seems to reshape the molecules around her. Her Hedda is poised and sensual with a magnetism that affects virtually every interaction. The glance is a seduction and the lightest curled lip becomes a threat, with DaCosta trusting her leading lady to convey the power of this woman in silent, lingering close-ups.

The smart, keenly observed and undoubtedly thorny power play of After the Hunt make it an arresting psychodrama, confronting our willingness to swallow our own suffering in the name of self-preservation as well as what we owe to ourselves and each other in an imperfect, cheerfully cutthroat society.

Where the film suffers is in its lack of a coherent dramatic arc, as it instead chronicles a chunk of time that marks a confluence of small epiphanies and aching fallbacks.

It’s a film that understands there’s nothing to be gained from making oneself an island, but remains stoic and unsentimental in its vision of the past.

Unfortunately, the schmaltzy mumblecore sensibilities that made Ansari’s Master of None a successful outing don’t translate in Good Fortune, an observational comedy of paltry observation; a frothy, big studio concoction of little substance and even less style.

While other horror directors are busy chasing their tails trying to create genre defining moments, Ben Leonberg has succeeded creating a thrilling mid-budget horror that goes beyond pandering to animal lovers or tugging at our heartstrings.

As each subsection gains steam, the film rises to full intensity before letting the pressure regulate, and so goes the cycle. The unconventional momentum keeps things fresh without overstuffing the narrative with too many moving parts at any one given time.

Ultimately, for all the focus on horrific ​‘cold cases’ from the past, this plays too nice with its characters in the present. Great horror is meaner-spirited and less happy-clappy.

Watching Tatum flex both his comedic muscles (especially when it comes to slapstick) and dramatic chops is utterly endearing and he deserves kudos for this performance. Cianfrance takes a daring swerve away from his usual melancholic working- class love stories, such as the powerful anti-romance Blue Valentine, to deliver a comedy that delivers big laughs and the occasional thrill.

The tight framing ensures we never lose focus of the anxiety gnawing away at him, while small gestures of humanity are balanced against the harshest measures our punitive society can impose.

The always great Farrell attempts to imbue his doomed gambler with a sliver of naïveté́ as he stumbles towards the story’s foregone conclusion, but there is little that can be done to compensate for this feeling of inevitability.

Jacob Elordi, Oscar Isaac and Mia Goth rise to the extraordinary demands of the material, which asks them to access the deepest parts of their humanity.

Carmen Emmi’s fraught debut Plainclothes has the makings of a steamy, provocative thriller, but seems disinterested in meaningfully grappling with the implications of its premise.

There’s something of a ​‘so what?’ aspect to the film where it all comes down to the thrill of potential escape and, eventually, a whole lot of good luck.

Dillane is a remarkable discovery.

To the film’s credit there’s a dedication to figuring out some impressive practical effects work in this clash of two worlds, but this is sadly undermined by the actual composition of the action sequences, which swing between feeling inert or overly busy.

It’s a bold play worth seeing, if only to watch Marlon Wayans get the ball and run.

It’s a film that feels gloriously alive, earnest in its depiction of masculinity that is fragile rather than toxic while still grappling with the question of why anyone would choose to make a living in such a barbaric way.

There’s an easy chemistry between the pair, and Hassan and Ingar do well to ping off of each other with their mouthy repartee and petty squabbles. The script, unfortunately, never really meets them where they stand, nor does it hit a level of authenticity that allows for any kind of true dramatic immersion in the occasionally farfetched situation.

In order to fill the measly 96-minute run time, there are many flashbacks, both from Maya’s perspective and from the killers as children, arguably making them ​‘strangers’ no longer. These flashbacks repeatedly hamper the film, knocking the thrill out of its pace and entertainment.

Operating on a grander scale, Kogonada still retains his singular, warm sensibility – and if you can succumb to the film’s heart-on-its-sleeve sentimentality, it’s a journey worth taking.

It studiously documents the various ways that Hamid makes his case, even though there’s never that much depth to the character beyond his cloak-and-dagger maschinations and a pressing desire for justice.

Happyend strikes a remarkable balance between social satire and adolescent drama, finding points of alignment between the humour of everyday teen life and the absurdity of the bureaucracies that shape it.

A general lack of detail ends up meaning that a lot of the film’s emotion and ideas are stated directly, whether through Murphy’s jittery (and at times quite contrived) performance, or via a voiceover device.

This is another slam-dunk for Anderson, who has made a film that is a very rare beast indeed: one that is incredibly fun without ever once straining to be. And if you’re reading these words, it’s your god-given duty to go see this in a cinema on the biggest, loudest screen you’re able to access.

From Ground Zero is a heartbreaking snapshot of an unforgivable moment in history, and as this tapestry of Palestinian life unfolds on our screens, we must heed the call of the artists who made it. Enjoy life, yes, but do something, anything, to ensure that they might enjoy life too.

No-one has a clue what they’re doing or what the purpose of this slip-shod, opportunist enterprise is. The film pays such heavy and pummelingly-consistent homage to the unimpeachable 1984 original, This is Spinal Tap, that the whole thing starts to look unseemly and self-satisfied.

The film works best when it allows the boys to simply shoot the breeze and discuss the lives they’ve led up to this moment.

Delightfully, Islands doesn’t patronise viewers. The film refuses to confirm or deny suspicions. It’s an exhilarating feast from co-writers Gerster, Blaž Kutin and Lawrie Doran who pen this winding tale with sharp subtlety.

This new The Toxic Avenger is relatively restrained, infuriatingly unfunny, yet entirely on-the-nose for more than just the stench of rot and urban decay that its scenes so frequently evoke. Sometimes the old hits are just better left uncovered.

The film offers no explicit commentary or context, but instead allows the images to speak for themselves.

After so many punishing stories, most recently 2022​’s Tori and Lokita, it’s hard to begrudge them the raw sentiment and mostly happy, hopeful endings of their newest one. But it comes too easy, in a film so artfully and opportunistically structured, which jumps from dramatic peak to dramatic peak as if skipping tracks on an album.

The overriding feeling you glean from Honey Don’t! is that it’s an example of two formidable filmmakers working in a register that almost punkishly rejects the intricacy and breathtaking formal panache of their past work.

It may fall prey to the odd awkward joke or saccharine moment, but Crazy Rich Asians is a blast from start to finish.

The satire isn’t quite as sharp as you would hope though.

The direction leaves much to be desired too; when the film veers into horror territory, with frequent off-screen kills and often incoherent action, it offers little of the original’s gripping tension.

The charismatic performances by Elordi and Edgar-Jones ensure that On Swift Horses is never less than watchable. They are both doing terrific work here, taking generous bites into material that does not match their commitment.

If the film doesn’t radically deepen the conversation around the gender politics or financial intricacies of marriage, it does find new textures in the way ambition corrodes intimacy.

While some of Aronofsky’s auteurist stamp gets lost restaging some of Gotham’s greatest cinematic hits, Caught Stealing hardly feels like director-for-hire work.

All we can do is refuse to look away. In bearing witness, we can regard the pain of others as our own.

Despite all its layers The Life of Chuck is nothing more than a set of Russian nesting dolls made entirely of borrowed brilliance.

The film certainly is rare in actually offering an authentic depiction of social media and its noxious capabilities, even if its insistence on proving there’s no righteous moral that can’t be swiftly liquidated does become a little tiresome by the home stretch.

The handmade qualities of this world amplify the sense of devastation. The characters, whose designs resemble Barras’s work on My Life as a Courgette, each have distinct personality in their design as well as a visible human touch on their surface which creates a level of immersion.

Turestedt is quietly superb in the lead and she carries the film’s themes on her shoulders with Jack-in-the-box tension, her veneer as a successful Swedish television presenter mimicking the repression she’s facing in her life.

It’s the banality of enduring a sexual assault that Victor captures so well in her film; how the trauma lingers long in the body, even when you keep insisting to everyone (including yourself) that you’re fine.

A film this unwilling to make any sort of profound statement needs to at least be dumb and fun, and it actually manages to be neither.

It’s a shame Together doesn’t lean into the humour more, as that’s what really sets it apart from other disturbing body horror with similar DNA.

It’s sometimes clumsily communicated but there’s something affecting about the reminder that it’s all worth the risk, or maybe it’s just that this writer has attended four weddings this summer.

The stans themselves are not massively interesting, and the film is happy to frame them as whimsically eccentric nerds rather than anything more psychologically problematic (which would confirm to a truer definition of the term ​“stan”.)

It’s a shame that the film falls back on old ideas, because Weapons’ first half is genuinely intriguing and some of the film’s scares are effective in both shock value and bewilderment. It’s clear that Cregger has a cinematic spark, and his sick sense of humour is most welcome in these trying times, but two films in, it’s time to find a new boogeyman.

Like a lightly rebellious Disney protagonist, Freakier Friday is nowhere near perfect, but gives it a good shot. It’s certainly more cliché than its predecessor and lacks some of the original’s polish and edge, but it’s undeniably entertaining for the most part, and sometimes – just sometimes! – that’s all a film needs to be.

Nearly every character in Bring Her Back is drowning in the depths of despair and desperately clinging on for dear life. Some flail and give into their worst instincts, some sink into oblivion, and others break the waves of grief and cruelty, albeit emerging with terrible scars.

The by-any-means-necessary bit barrage crams sight gags into the corners of frames, the credits, the infinitesimal space within edits. In a film that nobly aspires to everything being funny at all times, anything can be, the chief benefit of director Akiva Schaffer’s attention to and appreciation for the elements of cinematic form. You’ve got to be smart to be this stupid.

The Bad Guys 2 wipes the floor with the original which, in hindsight, looks like a scrappy work in progress.

In isolation, First Steps is a pretty good time, even if it feels as though it could push its aesthetic into more daring territory.

The plot is slipshod, the jokes are weak and the animation style offers very little to lodge into the memory.

Friendship arguably is a horror movie, evident in more than just its score and high wire tension between characters. The excruciating act of being vulnerable with another human being and the sweaty discomfort of realising a new friend is a bit off are mundane but relatable terrors, after all.

The constant blurring of the lines makes for a fascinating, often hilarious, watch.

There’s promise here. A broader cinematic universe that feels cohesive, filled with amusing cameos and, for the first time in years, a DCU that feels like it has a faint pulse are all very welcome. But whenever the film strains to address Big Ideas, it’s painful.

The few sin­cere inter­ac­tions between this cen­tral trio are the sole high­lights of the film, as Fel­lows’ com­e­dy tal­ents are wast­ed in a flim­sy script.

It looks good, it sounds good, the actors are giving it their all, and yet… it never properly gels.

With his rumi­na­tive lat­est, The Shrouds, Cro­nen­berg once more makes a play for the heart­strings in what must be one of the most naked­ly mov­ing and rev­e­la­to­ry films with­in his canon.

What saves the film from the sum­mer dol­drums is the typ­i­cal­ly stel­lar work by direc­tor Gareth Edwards, who, despite the qual­i­ty of the mate­ri­als he’s been giv­en to work with, proves once more that he’s one of the most inter­est­ing and orig­i­nal artists in Hol­ly­wood when it comes to cre­at­ing CG set pieces.

Despite occa­sion­al­ly indulging its worse instincts, there’s still a sur­pris­ing amount of fun to be had with M3GAN 2.0 – a big­ger and fun­nier sequel which could stand to pull back on both of those elements.

There’re no wheels being rein­vent­ed here in terms of tone or nar­ra­tive, but it is a very sol­id genre runaround that is ele­vat­ed by its occa­sion­al and wel­come laps­es into soul­ful intro­ver­sion.

Hudson’s film makes room to acknowl­edge that this is a fam­i­ly affair. Mol­ly is at the epi­cen­tre, but the rever­ber­a­tions impact every­one around her.

It’s a film which man­ages to have its daft thrills and con­vinc­ing­ly piv­ot to wist­ful philo­soph­i­cal intro­spec­tion, and while there are cer­tain­ly some rough edges and unex­plored plot avenues, it prob­a­bly counts as one of Boyle’s strongest works this cen­tu­ry.

There’s an unde­ni­able charm to this film that makes it easy to be daz­zled by. From its deeply lov­able lead char­ac­ters, who you can’t help but root for, to delight­ful sur­pris­es like a per­fect­ly timed Talk­ing Heads nee­dle drop and effort­less moments of humor. But what makes it tru­ly spe­cial is its heart­felt explo­ration of uni­ver­sal themes like grief, lone­li­ness, and the deep human desire to belong.

The reck­less tac­tics and brazen skull­dug­gery employed by Hayes are car­ried off with a know­ing wink and a toothy grin, but are also plain­ly ludi­crous – to the extent you may end up park­ing your sus­pen­sion of dis­be­lief. Still, when the results are this thrilling, it seems churl­ish to nit­pick about such fan­ci­ful nar­ra­tive manoeuvres.

On the whole, the live-action How to Train Your Drag­on plays it extreme­ly safe. It’s per­fect­ly pass­able, but only because it close­ly mir­rors a nar­ra­tive that’s already well-loved.

It’s laudable that Maclean wants to breathe new life into unabashed “B” material, but unfortunately the idiosyncratic touches have usurped rather than bolstered what should be robust, time-honoured noir framework, and we’re left with a film which leaves only a superficial impression and little sense of purpose.