The film’s spontaneous spirit is muddied by a sense that some ideas are retroactively staged . . . but what ultimately stays with you is the actor duo’s commendable ability to find inspiration and poetic gravitas in silliness, horseplay and tomfoolery, even (and especially) in the darkest of times.

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.

This is the best Marvel film in a while, but it doesn’t quite compete in the bigger leagues of the indie cinema it aspires to.

Selma Blair is sympathetically naturalistic as a woman who gave up her career to be a mother and now wonders what her options are. This is offset at every turn by Cage, whose line reading is unpredictable and whose movement is flamboyantly deranged.

This wonderfully promising debut from Raiff transposes personal experience brilliantly and showcases the filmmaker’s talent both in front of and behind the camera.

Orlando: My Political Biography is a dive into the collective trans consciousness, a discussion between Orlandos across time and place, an attempt to discover new ways to understand and express ourselves.

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.

Hopkins eschews spectacle and sentimentality while also doing away with inventive storytelling devices. A character-driven, verité approach provides a deft-enough framework to handle historical sweep and intimate moments between the club members with equal steadiness.

It’s a refreshing return to naturalistic form for Pugh following her recent blockbuster run, relishing in the multi-layered gowns designed by Odile Dicks-Mireaux. But The Wonder is most captivating in its look.

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.

A beautifully intimate yet open-ended interrogation of the spaces its characters are forced to navigate, Sadiq’s intricate debut is a haunting elegy that mourns the deadly suffocation of desire, elegantly tracing how the liberation of men, women, cis, and trans people is always entangled.

This is a moving and compassionate fable that honours both the dying and those being left behind, while personifying, without ever demonising, death itself.

Starve Acre is an undeniably impressive addition to this mini-movement, but it’s perhaps one that works better as a slow-burning aesthetic exercise than as either a nerve-rattling horror or an excavation of national myth, history, or identity.

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.

The film is a celebration of her life and work, but for such a controversial figure it would have benefited from some dissenting voices on the panel of interviewees, or at least gone a little deeper into her homespun methodology.

This is an assured leap to feature filmmaking for Manning Walker with a strong visual identity and sense of place – yet also one that sharply depicts the grey areas in gender and sexual politics that one is forced to confront as a teenager, particularly as a teenage girl.

There is a lack of catharsis in the conclusion which, to the film’s credit, feels apt. It’s a powerful story with no easy way forward for anyone concerned.

The layering of material is done carefully, with narrative embedded within the images.

It may be a tad uneven and repetitive in places but it’s also enjoyably sweet and silly.

The horror comes from seeing seismic consequences closer to newspaper headlines than history books. Figureheads die, but words live on, with grifters always waiting in the wings, spouting the same hate.

It’s a well-paced comedy that never threatens to outstay its welcome, somehow managing to daisy-chain childhood anxiety, family financial worries and a murder mystery into a single, coherent plot.

It’s in the writing where this one shines. Less in the moment-by-moment dialogue between characters, which is functional to a tee, and more in the way in which the clever plot is constructed and vital details are gradually teased out.

There’s a potent earnestness about The Chronology of Water – Stewart shows a deep empathy for her subject, and Yuknavitch’s memoir is transformed with an unapologetic confidence.

The film rarely lets up thanks to a combination of Ledru’s dynamic turn, kinetic camerawork with breathless tracking shots along open roads and impressively choreographed action sequences packed full of thrilling bike and quad stunts.

Tereszkiewicz and Marder delight as a double act, but it’s Huppert who steals the show with a cunning smile.

The contrast between Balsillie’s ruthless business mind and the awkward Lazaridis and Fregin is entertaining, and avoids the ‘difficult genius’ trope which haunts the subgenre by emphasising that BlackBerry was very much a team effort, and the individualism that followed later is part of the reason it failed.

There’s a sense that the makers of Mission: Impossible: The Final Reckoning are biting a thumb at the naysayers and playing the hits one more time, albeit with a little bit more focus on the previous feature installments.

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.