The film does aim for something a little deeper by also making it about the sheep being forced to acknowledge and experience the realities of death, and there are a couple of moments of sheep-based existential revelation that are surprisingly moving. At its best it even occasionally recalls vintage Aardman, particularly something like the original Chicken Run film.

The writing cannot match the poignancy of Lengronne’s performance. Her emotional immediacy is more interesting than the epic, yet comparatively muted scope of the film.

It’s a throwback to the exhilarating, ferocious Hong Kong action filmmaking of yore, capping off a muscular actioner that marries old-school bravado with contemporary technique.

It is at times chilling, morally reprehensible and frightening, but it also proves to be liberating for the central character.

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.

Maybe he doesn’t have the cunning of Keaton or the brawn of Bale, but in his own unique way Pattinson’s Batman feels perfectly adapted for the uncertain and unjust times we are living in, where greed and impunity are the order of the day. And if the film itself isn’t totally original, it at least spreads its latex wings in some fun and surprising ways.

It offers a spitefully funny takedown of a culture which sees no differences between the acts of soul-bearing and self-abasement, and just when you think Borgli couldn’t twist the knife any further, he does just that.

The film plays through the scenario with plenty of moment-by-moment gusto, and there’s a lack of flab to it that makes it rather appealing when placed next to so many action blockbusters (many of the interim Predator franchise entries included) that just feel the need to ramp things up to a silly degree. And still, this is a shallow film that offers little more than superficial pleasures.

The pungent whiff of designer cynicism pervades every scene, so not only is it difficult to understand why these diners aren’t taking their business elsewhere (which they absolutely would do if they’re the capitalist scum we’re told they are), but it’s difficult to give two hoots as to whether they stay or go.

Seeking Mavis Beacon is the debut film of two young Black women, carving out their own place for themselves within the historical record. It’s not flawless, or free of blemishes and glitches, but neither should it be.

Heretic may seek to rock your faith in the divine, but it truly fortifies one’s belief in Hugh Grant.

As an account of Hudson the Hollywood party boy and lothario it is comprehensive, though those expecting a more complex account of the star’s inconsistencies may find themselves shortchanged.

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.

No Way Home feels like a greatest hits package specifically designed to hit every fan service button. It doesn’t give us any indication of where this story is going, or why we should care.

Memory’s relatively restrained hundred-minute runtime is bloated with repetitive sequences focused on the characters navigating the world physically rather than emotionally, suggesting that even Franco fails to grasp the vast potential of the parable at hand.

The impressive momentum of the first hour, in spite of the inherent repetition, dissipates when the onscreen players start loitering and even sitting down to talk. In its third act, this otherwise effective thriller about getting stuck does end up spinning its own wheels.

It’s a film which dismantles and reconstructs the stereotypes of Black masculinity in a manner that’s both unsentimental and honest.

It’s a creative and admirably earnest endeavour, but one that will most certainly live or die on your tolerance for Torrini’s winsome warbling.

Gilford’s tale of chosen family awash with bright blues and reds maintains a bold sense of hopefulness at a time when America’s LGBTQ+ population is bracing for the worst.

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 hunt” may be the driving force of the booksellers, but the film shows rare bookselling evolving into a form of curatorship – and that being the key of its evolution, survival and accessibility.

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.

Unfortunately, Disco Boy is afflicted with the curse of trying to pack too much (in terms of both style and substance) into its 92-minute runtime, rendering it incapable of saying much at all.

Every woman’s uphill battle will look different, and here is one fleshed out admirably.

The film keeps us guessing to the end, although a lack of character development and some ponderous plotting means it’s hard to care too much about the fate of Pete and the others.

Cemented by Efira’s restrained, empathetic performance, Paris Memories is a deft exploration of recovery, and a moving tribute to Winocour’s brother Jérémie and other victims and survivors.

Far from a humiliating and cruel character assassination, this film is a study of the limits of perception that is tender and unsettling in equal measure.

Reflecting on McQueen’s oeuvre, Blitz is a clear culmination of his greatest passions, the film itself feeling at once fresh and well-trodden.