The acting is feeble but for a solid turn from Idris Elba as the boozy bodyguard Duncan. The action is jeopardy-free and repetitive. And although the pitiful script, in vague development hell for more than two decades, seems determined to recast He-Man as a delicate, left-leaning protagonist, a finale involving gloriously captured face punches and broken jaws leaves us in no doubt that he remains a two-fisted Trumpian warrior and 1980s to the core.

It's like watching fantastically dull scenarios from the 2007 first person video game Portal apparently a source of inspiration for Parsons. There are breaks for backstory — Clark had a volatile marriage; Mary's mother was sectioned — but these add little meaningful context or narrative grounding.

Malek is excellent as Jimmy George, an actor and singer in Eighties New York who is starring in a musical revue, as is Tim Sturridge (The Sandman) as Jimmy’s loyal boyfriend and nurse.

The result feels like a Gabriel García Márquez novel with a rocket under its bum.

[Claire's] social circle seems to consist entirely of vapid, annoying thirtysomethings swanning around doing nothing of any value. The problem is that the film, directed by the Spaniard Maria Martínez Bayona, feels equally aimless.

Coward is sweetly played and elegantly mounted but there’s little here that really surprises.

At heart, though, this is just a suspense movie with some decent twists and an excellent turn from Tawba El Gharchi as Ida, Thomas and Nora’s fiery young daughter.

Like many films at the festival this year The Dreamed Adventure is too long, but a running time of almost three hours does let you get under the skin of Veska, played with grit, soul and wit by Yana Radeva.

Like most first-time directors, Van Dyk sometimes hits flat notes and tonal wobbles, overplaying the sentimentality in places. But he closes on lyrical flourish, at a quiet family gathering that speaks volumes about shared humanity and the kindness of strangers.

Welcome back the British rom-com! It’s been a while since we’ve had a profoundly lovely film that swaggers into life from the opening disco beats (New Order’s Blue Monday) and subsequently demonstrates an unwavering surety of purpose.

It’s Jones who provides the tale with emotional ballast. His softly espoused beliefs in the values of home, family and living in glorious anonymity.

The film is cooler emotionally than Almodóvar’s early work but full of wit and self-awareness.

There are feeble nods to The Empire Strikes Back here and palsied winks to Return of the Jedi there, as if callbacks from the Iron Man director Jon Favreau had some magical revitalising power and were not symptomatic of a film and a franchise that exists in a grim creative void.

The cruellest blow of all is the action from the director Andrew Bernstein (who also directed the TV series). It’s generic, personality-free and very streaming.

The film is very much a paper tiger — what feels at first like a prestige production is ultimately toothless and unconvincing.

Soderbergh, as proved with his Ocean’s franchise, is a veritable heist-meister. Yet this is possibly the genre’s loosest, least rigorous entry, a film that instead opts for existential inquiry and complex character portraiture.

Parallel Tales (Histoires parallèles) begins as an ambitious, metatextual, multicharacter ensemble drama, with various key cast members playing dual roles. But it rambles on too long, losing much of its early charm and focus in a ponderous, undercooked second half.

The film plays like a well-leafed anthology of Irish folklore, handsomely enough shot but lacking the unifying conceit that has driven, say, the great Australian horror movies of recent years: The Bababook, Talk to Me, Bring Her Back. Hangings, hauntings, howling winds? For McCarthy, it’s all just good craic.

It is difficult to overstate Streep’s importance, and how deeply she inhabits a role that, for any other actress, would certainly be cartoonish — the outfits, the glasses and the whispered catchphrase “that’s all”.

Solid on research, weaker on analysis, this is an affectionate celebration that keeps the northern soul campfires burning nicely.

Remarkably Bright Creatures milks My Octopus Teacher for Hallmark-card dollops of anthropomorphic sentiment, but fails to live up to the promise of its title, abundantly. Nice but dim is closer to the mark.

Mazin’s script has some fun with whodunnit tropes — the late-arriving wild card, the police blaming a drifter, the clue lying in the victim — but the film’s flaw is fairly straightforward: the sheep don’t do enough detecting.

There is seemingly an ironic undertow to Urban’s character. He’s from “the Earthrealm”, aka Earth, and is a washed-up former action star in the Chuck Norris mould. It’s supposed to be a clever wink to the audience and a quirky acknowledgement that this is all pretty awful, right? As if joking about the stench of a sewer will somehow make it smell sweeter.

At just 80 minutes it’s small but perfectly formed and packed with more ideas and infused with more heartbreak than most overlong arthouse epics.

It’s an exquisite portrait of a musical genius at work. And Yoko Ono.

Concert films are often an underwhelming proxy for a fine night out, but Cameron’s technical virtuosity and storytelling verve bring the whole shebang to life — as does shooting in 3D. I’m no Eilish superfan, but I enjoyed it a lot more than the last Avatar flick.

Insolia and Riondino, meanwhile, are quite perfectly cast. Their characters have soul chemistry and their scenes together are the film’s best.

Sam and Mother Mary’s chemistry is the film’s big sell, and the impeccable Coel and imperious Hathaway prove the ultimate dynamic duo.