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.

Where the film really sings, however, is in its depiction of buried guilt and false hope. The beating heart of it develops through MacKay’s performance of pure naivety and his burgeoning relationship with Ingram’s Girl.

It’s an intriguing set-up which comes to a surprising head, and while some of the twists are a little contrived, the film as a whole works as a fierce admonishment of western nostalgia for its colonial past.

It’s undemanding, dramatically inert and, although class is very much on its agenda, one-dimensional in its depiction of the golfing establishment’s stuffy elitism.

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.

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 performances at the core of the film are stellar, and it comes as a surprise to no one that Andrea Riseborough gives a pure dynamite turn, contorting every inch of her face and body as the carnivalesque Suze.

The story unfolds at breakneck speed, with never a dull moment.

It’s superior to the stuffy, lore-obsessed recent Scott films, yet doesn’t hold an atmospherically flickering candle to the original or its sequel. It also doesn’t have the rough-and-ready, overreaching character of Fincher’s famous folly. Yet it makes for a decent time at the pictures, and the grinding first half is worth enduring for a pleasantly rip-snorting finale.

Despite its refusal to lean into the visceral imagery it sets out with, The Damned still succeeds in creating a haunting atmosphere, which is aided by the deserted Icelandic landscape that seems to stretch on forever.

MaXXXine is the weakest chapter in this throwback horror saga as West just cannot seem to decide what film it is he’s making. And by the time he does, he sadly opts for the most boring and narratively underwhelming one.

Ayouch means well, interpreting the teens’ connection to rap music as emblematic of a rebellious spirit, yet deeper discussions on other social issues – politics, women’s rights, religion – are unfortunately reduced to mere sources of frustration, either ending abruptly or remaining incomplete.

The throbbing interpersonal strains intensify with a gentle logic, even if, tonally, the film does sometimes stray into a mid-tier streaming dramady serial at times.

An American impulse for neat endings and recognisable stories gets in the way, but Rental Family is still beautifully written and gives little windows into Japanese life, from a Monster Cat festival to a rural diversion with breathtaking scenery, with Fraser’s endearing everyman as an emotional linchpin that viewers will love.

It’s a shame the film that exists around this technical experiment oscillates between ludicrous and tedious, undermining any scares that might be generated through the wonder of creative foley and effective mixing.

Bilal Hasna shines as Layla, delivering a magnetic performance, but unfortunately the same can’t be said for the rest of the cast, who fall victim to the contrivances of a script that was maybe taken out of the oven before it was fully cooked.

As chaotic and unpredictable as the bands themselves, but that isn't all that surprising. There’s a lot to pack in.

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.

With a mix of righteous anger and abiding serenity, Thornton terraforms the Wild West of his home nation into a spiritually parched landscape.

What lifts Mirza’s film above the pack is that it is alive with colour and music, her characters are endearing and, while a little fragmented towards the end, the writer/director at least makes sure it’s a pleasure to reach that point.

Rather than critiquing practices it purports to condemn, The Other Lamb becomes party to the evils it depicts.

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

Tensing, thrusting, dripping with sweat and the promise of a good time after the curtain falls, Butler gets the moves, the voice and, most importantly, Elvis’ charisma down. Whatever flaws the film has, Butler’s Elvis is mesmeric.

As entertainment Napoleon delivers without glorifying his military record or painting the man as a hero. It’s a story about power, obsession and exploitation – which arguably is the story of history itself.

Along Came Love essays a type of bond where shared secrets eventually erupt, causing both tragedy and release.

Kramer fires on all cylinders in terms of imagery and tone – both are perfectly executed and entirely captivating. Aesthetically, this experiment proves to be a masterful exercise in high camp.

For all his puerile instincts, Gunn is able to create stakes in this film that feel real and meaningful – perhaps because of the care that has gone into fleshing out this group of characters over the course of three films (and all their supplementary appearances).

Tension between characters seems to evaporate all too easily, meaning it’s hard to really see any weight in their words or actions. This, combined with the flimsy conceit that a fundamentally corrupt institution can be changed from the inside out with a few good men, means that Gladiator II lacks both the gravitas and simple but satisfying narrative arc which made its foundation such a refreshing epic.

The entries into this wicked compendium are more interesting due to their differences rather than their similarities, suggesting that all types of people have their lives ruined by some variety of existential conundrum. And that is something that creates a sprawling lattice of deep human connectivity.

Sebastian gradually transforms into something more substantial when reaching towards a point about the cross-generational relaying of queer histories, but ultimately is too preoccupied with constructing a shallow character study to delve into more nuanced terrain.

Modern viewers, raised on decades of gialli and slashers, will have little trouble identifying the shadowy figure whodunnit. But there is still real pleasure to be had in wandering these halls of repressed madness, where everyone seems affected in one way or another by the tragedy of Kathleen.

By halfway, Trump gets more flagrantly cruel, delusional, thin- skinned and aggressive. It’s the kind of charismatic antihero’s journey that might fly in a Scorsese film – arguably the ultimate Trump film is The Wolf of Wall Street – but Abassi and Sherman’s take on the material is largely dutiful.

Not only does The Creator work as a good time at the movies, but it is also a reminder that mid-budget, (somewhat) original, crowd-pleasing stories can be told with aplomb.

Arbitrary continuity errors, heavy-handed symbolism, an agonisingly laborious pace and shallow characterisation leave a sour taste in the mouth, especially as the payoff is not gruesome enough to justify the means that get us there.

It’s a film with some decent feel-good credo (if that type of thing floats your boat), and there’s certainly value in having a film about mature characters that isn’t horrendously winsome and patronising.

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.

Despite the strong performances by Cumberbatch and Foy, the complex weaving together of symbolic strands feels contrived; they hang loosely together by a precarious thread.

Despite Boon matching Graham’s quiet intensity and Riseborough’s low frequency depression with a gnashing rebellious streak, the three performances can’t lift The Good Boy from the limitations of its own tethered melodrama.

The overall effect of this well-starched pantomime of Britishness is dizzying – it produces the peculiar kind of seasickness induced by cake-coloured period dramas when they don’t quite capitalise on their potential for quality kitsch, instead over-amping the nostalgic sentimentality, and neglecting the campiness that could make them so much more fun.

There’s an interesting metaphor here for McAvoy’s own career as a Scottish man who earns a crust by perfecting a range of accents and character types. Yet its feelgood arc is all a little predictable and soft-edged.

There’s still a great deal to admire, in particular the rich cinematography of Jarin Blaschke (best known for his collaborations with Robert Eggers) which creates a pleasing contrast from the sinister scenario, and the affection with which Shyamalan treats all his characters. Sure, there’s violence, but there’s a whole lot of love too.

The beauty in Schrader’s work has always been in the relationship between penance and absolution, which feels noticeably absent here. It’s a shame because the trio of Edgerton, Swindell, and Weaver deliver strong performances, and Devonte Hynes’ romantic score with a slight edge of sombreness is nicely atmospheric, but the film’s third act feels too neat and unconvincing, particularly given the sharpness of the conclusion in Schrader’s last two films.

If the film occasionally falters with its relative lack of incident across nearly two hours, Foy’s performance – especially in the transfixing training scenes captured in long, unbroken takes – tells several stories on its own.

Even though it’s a story that severely lacks for surprise, in both the silly nature of the tests and the question of Anna and Amir’s latent bond, the actors take the material seriously enough for the film to remain engaging enough.

It’s certainly an enjoyable watch, though Östlund gestures towards big questions about gender and class divisions without making any truly bold statements. Instead, his characters noodle around inside increasingly outlandish scenarios, and the eventual ending feels rather abrupt after two hours of build-up.

There’s an ethereal quality to Jolie’s performance that matches Callas’ legendary persona, and despite the deep sense of melancholy that pervades the film like a ghostly veil, this is still a love story – and one where the heroine lives forever.

The most shocking element of Bring Them Down is the emotional truth at its core; Andrews’ observation of how difficult the cycles of abuse are to break is astute, and even the most sensational elements of the plot have a grim plausibility to them. But this is balanced by the empathy that Andrews and his cast show.

Make no mistake – The Devil Wears Prada 2 scratches every itch a legacy sequel ought, with callbacks and cameos and jokes galore. But if the first film is Tom Ford and Calvin Klein then this time it’s Vivienne Westwood and Alexander McQueen – less slick, and with something darker underneath.

It’s not an entirely unpleasant journey, but the film does have a jarring, unfinished feel to it, and while the detail-oriented might find it novel to unpack its myriad cinematic homages, and Aster’s ambitious execution is worthy of celebration, ultimately it’s an uneven ride, particularly given the incredible talent involved.

Reeves and Moss are magnificent at resurrecting Neo and Trinity, and they blend exquisitely into Lana Wachowski’s matured style of filmmaking.

It’s a lot more interesting and exciting to think about than it is to watch.

The Sweet East takes an admirably measured look at societal fracture in the modern age, and its use of arch provocation becomes a device to represent a highly recognisable vernacular of despair, where obscenity (both verbal and corporeal) is the only language that cuts through the chaff.

Zippy duologues, expertly teased beehives and stunning late ‘60s costumes may make this pro-choice message more palatable to the masses but ultimately the film pulls its punches, never lingering long enough on a single scene or tragedy to let the impact of these women’s work consume the audience.

A wildly ambitious, idiosyncratic and very English domestic horror story baked in the mould of Clive Barker’s seminal S&M gore wig-out, Hellraiser, from 1987.

If you believe cinema’s job is to ask the questions rather than offer the answers, then this will usefully challenge you. A dirty fingernail stuck right into the open wound of our unspoken social anxieties.

Gripping and full of tension, The Teacher not only makes for a wonderful cinematic experience, but poses some all-important questions the wider world has seemingly avoided answering for too long.

Although Beetlejuice Beetlejuice suffers a little from an overabundance of ideas leading to a bit of a third-act scramble, and its plot points are sign-posted so large you can see them a mile away, it’s a much better-executed and enjoyable film than it has any right to be, charmingly reverent and referential to the point that even its cliche story beats can be mostly excused.

There is something strangely comforting about Red, White & Royal Blue, as imperfect as it is. It’s a romcom for the streaming era but it has a markedly different vibe to it because it’s fronted by two men.

There’s something curious and pure about the way Leone disassembles bodies, like a child breaking open an old VCR not to see how it works, but to survey and play with the complicated stuff inside.

One issue with here is there’s so much plot, alongside a persistent desire to frame and underscore every one of this journey’s universal resonances, that it’s hard not to feel bogged down in ideas and details.

It is tempting to want people to be one thing or the other: the murderer or the victim. This film reminds us: Highsmith was both.

A tightly-paced action thriller, Plane competently delivers on the deliciously formulaic tropes of the genre.

By transposing the video essay format to a feature-length affair, Philippe attempts a union of theory (criticism) and practice (documentary filmmaking), and so the very ontology of Lynch/Oz becomes a subject of fascination in its own right.

It is funny, grotesque, assuredly savvy and very bloody — and one might discern, in its preoccupation with errant parents struggling to get closer to their estranged children, a Message that could be called universal.

While Hunter Schafer makes for a great Final Girl and Dan Stevens is on top form leaning into his knack for playing offputting weirdos, Cuckoo suffers from an ambiguity that hinders the story, unable to reconcile the comedic elements of the plot with the unsettling.

It’s a good time, but not a great time – though within the canon of Stephen King adaptations, it’s definitely among the more fruitful offerings to make it to screen.

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.

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.

Some will find the earnest silliness which ties a lot of Fire and Ash​’s beats together tiresome, but – along with the work of some very gifted digital artists – it’s what keeps them feeling real and not just empty capitalisation on a billion dollar box office.

Earwig consciously lacks the clarity we’re taught to ultimately expect from mysteries – but then Hadžihalilović is not in the business of making clear-cut whodunits. In opting to take a less-trodden path, she creates something sensuously distinct but narratively ambivalent.

Unfortunately Heart Eyes is so vacuous and confused that it can’t even decide if it’s cynical or sentimental about love itself.

Chazelle swings for the fences, but Babylon feels like the worst kind of jazz: a loose freestyle comprised of beautiful moments punctuated by bum notes and off-key scatting.

The film is not without intrigue as the situation is so bizarre and terrifying that it often appears more like a work of fiction.

Despite its laid back tone and a committed performance from Erivo, the film lacks for surprise and innovation, slowly edging towards a revelatory climax that only the most narrow-sighted of viewers would not have seen coming from a million miles off.

There are numerous moments where all the signposts point towards a saccharine dirty bomb, and thankfully, the film seldom allows those to detonate.

While neither director nor screenwriter seem to have anything more substantial to say about female pleasure beyond the fact that it’s important, you do nevertheless find yourself cheering for Florence and Violette when they embrace their selfish side.

For all its convention, Oscar Harding’s A Life on the Farm remains an elegy for amateur filmmaking, while also allowing for the survival of Carson’s work, which though brilliant, remained undiscovered and unrecognized until now.

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.

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

It’s not that Soto has no moves in his arsenal when it comes to achieving a mere modicum of originality, it’s that the formal structure of these films is now so tired and dreary that, even with a few, nifty customisable elements, everything looks and feels like a rehash of something else.

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.

There’s no real moral centre to the film – it’s a depth-free caper which only demonstrates negligible interest in any wider ramifications of these types of big money boardroom IP raids.

Scream VI is well-made, fast-moving and often painfully brutal, while peppered with the kind of sassy, savvy dialogue that has always been a hallmark of the franchise.

What begins as a genuinely entertaining and well-pitched dramedy quickly becomes ridiculous and out of touch.

It’s a bittersweet story, foreshadowed by his descent into alcoholism, yet the film manages to retain a purity of heart that will likely move any Burton fan.

Occasionally, the film does lack ambiguity, and there are a number of characters who, just through the casting, make-up and dress, come across as one-dimensional extremes of “goodies” and “baddies”. Yet Molly herself, and the seemingly endless string of physical and psychological trials she endures . . . makes for a satisfying emotional core.

The film is fan fiction about real-life celebrities.

Don’t call it a throwback though. Despite bearing certain similarities to high-concept action-adventure romantic comedies of yesteryear (namely Romancing the Stone, The Jewel of the Nile and Six Days, Seven Nights), this is a thoroughly modern romp.

While Raimi injects as much soul into this sequel as the Marvel blueprint will allow, it’s difficult to see the film as anything other than a cog in a bigger machine.

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.

Failing to capture the wit or intelligence of Christie, See How They Run instead relies on tired stereotypes about women and gay men, and in an ensemble full of talented actors, there’s barely a compelling performance to be found.

While the mysterious finer details of Clooney and Pitt’s characters are willfully obscured on account of their guarded professionalism, it’s a shame that the film paints in such broad strokes more widely, as this doesn’t leave much room for substantial character development or emotional investment.

With a forgettable, borderline generic, plot and direction lacking flair and artistry, it’s not a disaster, it’s just a disappointment.

With Medusa Deluxe, Hardiman makes a directorial debut that successfully injects a fresh, vibrant perspective into the murder mystery genre while still employing the dark dread that stands as its trademark.

This is certainly the most stylishly directed of all the sequels. But still, its ironic self-consciousness about how tired its material has become does not ultimately make it any less tired.

A couple of really random and contrived twists in the fourth quarter make it hard to invest emotionally in the climactic, must-win game, though there’s just enough humour and heart to scrape a last-second win.

It’s a pleasure to see Fraser given a role he can put his heart into, and his nuanced performance saves The Whale from turning into a ghoulish spectacle or a very artfully shot episode of TLC’s exploitative reality show ‘My 600lb Life’.

The Nowhere Inn is fan service in the most St Vincent of ways: solidifying her mysterious image as a queer women’s deity, baring everything and revealing nothing at all.