Considering McDonagh’s previous writing form, you’re left expecting some subversion or commentary on this overused device – but it never comes.

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

Beast doesn’t reinvent the wheel when it comes to animal survival films, but it’s free enough of fat and frills to warrant a watch in the theatrical dog days of summer.

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.

It’s compulsively watchable hokum, sometimes earnest, sometimes daft, but always trying to reach beyond its grasp. And there’s no reason why Emelonye wouldn’t make the transition from Nollywood to Hollywood in the next decade or so.

It’s passable as a mildly amusing twist on the slasher genre, but its lack of strong identity or coherent thesis means there’s little that sticks in the mind after the credits role, and ultimately does a disservice to its crop of talented stars.

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.

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.

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.

For all its technical prowess, this is a contemporary action-thriller with a distinctly old-fashioned flavour; one eye on the future and both feet planted in the past.

The feverish and feral performance by Araya drags the film back from operating as a wispy metaphor.

Unfortunately the film piles on twist after twist until it ends up in dark territory it doesn’t feel equipped to handle, and the mood sours due to the deployment of a serious subject matter as simply a shocking twist.

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

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.

Garland’s film seems to be an attempt to highlight the very real misogyny within the modern world that has no insight on the subject beyond Women Have Always Had It Quite Bad.

Undoubtedly the film means well, but its cliche, entirely predictable plot and uninspired message mean there’s not much to take away – it feels like a relic from a bygone era, and given Farrelly’s previous form, all feels a little insincere.

Migration is not an ambitious film, and doesn’t seem to have anything important to say about why one might migrate and the lessons we can learn from this rather arduous but necessary endeavour.

The duo’s Indian collaborators are largely absent though, and it all comes together in a rather shallow, often frustrating attempt to bottle up a significant piece of late 20th century film history, devoid of that touch of Merchant Ivory movie magic.

It is ironic that Richard Linklater has chosen to homage a film carved out of spontaneous new techniques with one so mired in contrivances that it is impossible for it to breathe.

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.

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.

There is nothing that resonates below the surface here; this is a half-remembered story dressed in a beautiful gown that seems destined for TikTok fan edits and Pinterest mood boards rather than soul-stirring emotional catharsis. We are guided by the hand, instructed on how to feel at every moment, and trusted with nothing.

The film had the potential of creating a memorable Satanic conjurer. Instead, we get mere glimpses of an overgrown Wednesday Addams look-alike. Hardly demonic business.

For a director whose career has centered human connection at every turn to create some of the most vulnerable and emotional stories on romance and human connection within the field of Japanese animation, it feels like a rare misfire.

Ultimately, the wonderful family movie in here that’s screaming to get out is hopelessly trapped in Disney’s Haunted Mansion.

Despite its noble intentions, The Silent Twins is a broad-brush depiction of the Gibbons sisters’ lives, one that fails to represent the institutional racism and discrimination which had a profoundly damaging effect on them and quite possibly led to Jennifer’s death.

Told in a literal and linear fashion, the style of animation and narrative pacing unfortunately means that the film – with exception of the final scenes – sometimes loses poignancy in its attempts to express the unfathomable tragedy of Charlotte’s life.