There’s just not enough natural, easy charm and the star, like many maturing child actors before her, can’t figure out how big or small to go with her adult reactions, making something buoyant and breezy look far too much like hard work.

Radiating a sickly ambience, The Last Assassins is happily far more granular visually speaking.

As the jokes start to sour and the night shifts to something more serious, Wilde and her dramatically experienced ensemble are able to handle a difficult tonal descent without slipping.

Had the film been contained by its clever premise - the Minions must fight to preserve their place in Hollywood – it might have achieved the crystalline simplicity that is a hallmark of good children’s films. But aiming to both lead the Minions in a newer, smarter direction and appease the gibberish-fest expectations set by the franchise, Coffin bites off more than he can chew.

If Boll and Musk want to make and promote make a film about an establishment stitch-up, then why not a hard-hitting film about the relationship of Jeffrey Epstein and Donald Trump? Meanwhile it’s time for Hammer to return to the trade he followed before this: selling timeshares in the Cayman Islands.

The ultimate irony of Strung is that it’s just another industry exercise in ignoring your gut in favor of playing it safe – and on that score, alas, it sings.

Though composed of a huge volume of material, Daher’s documentary does not overwhelm, maintaining instead a remarkable rhythm that fluidly moves between calm, exuberance and disorder.

I found a few moments here lightly amusing . . . but it’s largely, disappointingly short on real laughs, a panicked maximalism to its bawdiness replacing anything more smart and thought through.

Seeing a Jackass movie with a crowd is still a kick, and Knoxville’s still got it. And by “it”, I mean the willingness to get into the ring with a furious bull, and then go back when he doesn’t quite get the shot he wants.

Supergirl isn’t a perfect movie by any means, but there are moments when you’ll believe this franchise can fly.

The overblown finale unites the family therapy and gorehound strands, as the demonic hunter does his atavistic worst – while everyone else competes to sacrifice themselves for each other (and vocalises their need to do so). It’s like the Scary Movie franchise did a splatterhouse Last of the Mohicans skit.

In many ways it’s a shrewd sketch of the ways that real life, in all its embarrassment and banality, does not respectfully stop for bad news.

The combustible mix of lowlife cynicism and high art provide enough energy and enjoyment to power the first two-thirds of this long film. But in the end it flags, and it’s as if the outrageous black comedy has to be paid for with solemn romantic fantasy. But what a performance from Butler.

In trying to scratch our itch for the old while also recognising the new, McKendrick settles for something stale.

Nothing in Girls Like Girls exists beyond individual feeling, and there are no larger institutions to speak of, not even a school. It all leaves the film stranded in an unsatisfying place: intensely personal yet emotionally unearned, politically gestural yet totally vacant of politics. Kiyoko has made a film obsessed with being seen. It never once learns how to look.

Here is a really impressive directorial debut from Mumbai film-maker Rohan Kanawade: tender, subtle, candid, scrupulously observed.

A couple of its good-looking actors give performances with frozen, startled expressions, like they’ve been kidnapped from the set of an advert for luxury five-star holidays.

For a slow – and often ponderously uneventful – film, the ending also feels strangely rushed, decisions and reveals not explored enough for them to really land in the way that’s clearly intended (there’s a potentially more satisfying psychological thriller using the same ingredients). There’s really impressive craft here though.

It’s almost incredible to think that the Toy Story series is more than 30 years old, a central plank of the Pixar animation golden age. But now it is played out and IP exhaustion has set in.

As a formal experiment, Dry Leaf has its own conviction and self-possession and there is a deliberate, if opaque artistry here: one shot shows us a dry leaf under Irakli’s car-tyres, another gives us wet leaves in a waterfall. The soft-edged, pixelated look is, however, interesting and surprisingly watchable, bringing a kind of painterly effect.

This unsettling parable has a scriptural concision and mystery.

The way Friedland subtly works in these little touches is truly impressive. But her finest achievement here may be casting Chalfant, who gives an astonishingly nuanced, considered and graceful performance.

Overall this is a frustrating and rather precious piece of work.

Ladykins, Stop! That! Train! is a winner. Perhaps that’s unsurprising seeing as many recent Drag Race challenges have felt like mini movie sets themselves, with elaborate scripts and costumes. And while recent gay movies like Pillion and Blue Film have focused on uncomfortable home truths about queer life, Stop! That! Train! offers refreshingly rosy escapism. See it with as rowdy – and gay – an audience as possible.

The film has a clever dodge for avoiding the inevitable silly moment when the aliens are revealed but, in a few too many scenes, this is a bit more snore than awe.

Disclosure Day does give us once again a very Spielbergian primal scene of suburban childhood, though not with the devastating reality of his autobiographical The Fabelmans; rather, it is that aliens give Spielberg his way of defying the old maxim about not being able to go home.

Black-belt performances from Claire Foy and Richard E Grant put some vim and vigour into this haranguingly one-note and unidirectional period romp of the raucously bewigged and be-poxed 18th century.

Every movie the Wayans come across has essentially the same function: an easily recognizable bathroom wall where they can scrawl insults about who’s a slut, who’s secretly gay and who deserves to get abruptly hit by a car.