Cherry might represent a drastic shift in scale, tone and subject matter for its directors and leading man alike, but there’s a blockbuster-sized gap where its point should be.

The main disappointment, other than female characters who only exist to be disposed of, comes from recognising the kernel of something unusual buried in the film’s marrow.

As things go on, Cross’s plot doesn’t so much thicken as coagulate into nonsense. Serkis’s evil plans don’t always make much sense, even when factoring in the whole murderous psychopath thing, while the grislier imagery is often too poseur-ish to unnerve.

The picture is slight to the point of translucence.

It’s less an adaptation than a recapitulation.

It’s the kind of format that works as long as the characters aren’t all completely unbearable – which is, alas, not the case here.

The conceit of a film as a warning from the future is a promising one, but 2073 feels more like political signalling for the present.

Is Mother Mary a comment on modern stardom? Or the study of an intense, broken relationship? Or is it just an excuse for two hours of sculptural close-ups and artfully creepy tableaux? As you watch, you find yourself continually grabbing at meaning but, like a ghost, your fingers slip straight through.

Michôd’s film consciously plays like an outback western, peppered with jagged and unpredictable outbursts of hard brutality. But it could do with losing control a little more often – and with establishing the dangers of its dog-eat-dog world more precisely.

Neither clever nor stupid enough to work.

The placid, open-ended charm of its video game source material is nowhere to be found in this grindingly generic brand extension.

This supernatural thriller has a wild conceit about a time-bending beach, and every creaky device to hand gets thrown in to keep it going.

Puig’s story is trivialised by slickness, and the tragic ending barely registers.

Historical epics are rarely light on their feet, but The King sets new standards in the field of galumphing: the film moves like a rhinoceros through porridge.

CODA is way too busy playing things cute.

This movie starts from a premise so sociologically batty it’s hard to take any of its subsequent terrors seriously, which means tension doesn’t so much fly out the window as fail to even get up the driveway.

The whole thing unspools at such an unremittingly earnest pitch that it leaves you groping under your seat for a ventilator.

But the only sense of wonder the film instils is this: if we have to wait so long between movie musicals, who on earth thought it would be a good idea to wait for this one?

There’s little chemistry and less comic frisson, thanks in part to the weird seams of pettiness and condescension running through the script.

The Hunger Games prequel plunges us back into the futuristic empire of Panem – but fails to live up to the first films of the franchise.

The film doesn’t look like the future, or the past’s idea of the future, or anything other than a venal cash grab.

The movie sorely needs a tighter edit, and direction from Apatow that isn't so slapdash and sitcommy.

The movie isn’t awful, just sapping and strained.

Having your heart in the right place isn’t much use, if you’ve forgotten your head somewhere up Sugarloaf Mountain.

There is something utterly perplexing about this British comedy, in which three middle-aged women go on an Interrailing trip with the daughter of a recently departed friend: it’s as if the cast and crew were planning to make a musical, then got to the set and decided they couldn’t be bothered.

It bombards you with overwritten monologues and try-hard music cues in an attempt to drown out its dramatic shortcomings.

Smith makes Nicky too obviously insincere, with a grating, gloomy edge – which means he never suckers you in, and the fun dries up before it ever starts.

A flabby, directionless disappointment, which only occasionally raises the heart-rate.