It is the rarest kind of sports movie, in that it will encourage in participants a different, thoroughly thoughtful perspective with which to view their pastime. Breath is a surfer film with soul and gravitas.

Hunnam and Malek both hold up their end of the deal. Noer, for his part, meets them halfway by conjuring golden-hued beauty for the jungle surroundings and a due griminess for the danker chambers of their holding compound. He doesn’t overcomplicate things for himself, keeping the clunky dialogue to a minimum and focusing on the guiding light of Papi’s indomitable willpower.

It really is strange, a film with what is actually a pretty good premise for a comedy, but with no interest in actually being a comedy and also no interest in being a thriller, or even that mysterious erotic parable that it seems to be claiming to be.

Monge has created a satisfying drama of doomed obsession, the gambler’s thrill that staves off, for a few moments, a weariness with life. It’s a film with, as they say, something of the night about it.

It is often poignant and humorous but also placid and complacent, with performances bordering on the self-regarding and even faintly insufferable.

It is a movie made up of delicate brushstrokes: details, moments, looks and smiles.

What Kahiu’s film lacks in originality, it makes up for in its depiction of the giddy flush of first love. Mugatsia and Munyiva have an easy, unfussy chemistry that overcomes some creakier moments of dialogue.

It’s a simplistic film in some ways, with a naive ending – but there is energy and vigour, too.

The Wild Pear Tree is a gentle, humane, beautifully made and magnificently acted movie.

It is a rather slight dramatic experience.

It is an attractive and sympathetic performance from Geirharðsdóttir as Halla.

Leto is a film with some wonderful moments and some slightly forgettable stretches – like an album with one or two wonderful tracks.

It is bewildering. I’m not sure I understood more than a fraction and of course it can be dismissed as obscurantism and mannerism. But I found The Image Book rich, disturbing and strange.

With Happy as Lazzaro, Rohrwacher has crafted a magic-realist fable that doubles as an origin myth for a modern Italy subsumed by corruption and decline.

Girls of the Sun is a feminist war movie: impassioned, suspenseful, angry.

Donbass is a flawed, but vivid achievement.

This is a stridently, bafflingly cacophonous movie which despite some smart, shrewd touches, is pretty much content with its single note of shouting acrimony and finishes by immolating itself in martyred self-pity.

This is an amusing essay in amorous delusion.

Filho’s film is never less than heartfelt and strident, like a tale torn from life, or an episode of Jeremy Kyle played as stentorian opera. And this, I suspect, may be part of the problem. Crucially, Angel Face lacks shading, pacing and nuance.

Nevertheless Cargo is a very strong, at times stirring achievement: a zombie film with soul and pathos.

A movie with incomparable bite and strength.

The crystalline black-and-white cinematography exalts its moments of intimate grimness and its dreamlike showpieces of theatrical display. It is an elliptical, episodic story of imprisonment and escape, epic in scope.

This is a gripping nightmare.

[An] attractive and sympathetically acted movie in a classic New Wave style.

This film just wades into a murky lake of self-consciousness and sinks inexorably to the bottom.

It is an ordeal of gruesomeness and tiresomeness that was every bit as exasperating as I had feared.

Solo: A Star Wars Story is a crackingly enjoyable adventure which frankly deserves full episode status in the great franchise, not just one of these intermittent place-holding iterations

The movie’s other major weakness is its continued foregrounding of the white guys at the expense of the consciously inclusive cast around them.