Too stodgy for B-movie suspense, too silly to shock, too sexist to stomach, Diesel’s return misfires.

Wanted director Timur Bekmambetov stresses spectacle over subtext – and, effectively, leaves the cast floundering fast.

With a super-spoof that’s occasionally funny but always forgettable, the Melissa McCarthy-verse falls flat at Phase One.

At best, this is a cringey stab at black comedy redeemed by charismatic stars; at worst it’s a glib and manipulative punt on a subject that deserves more care.

An uncomfortable fit for the Time's Up era.

Part courtroom movie, part behind-bars romance, Folie à Deux is an unconventional musical sequel that fails to hit the high notes.

Like a meal made entirely of chillies, Machete Mk II is spicy to start with, then unpleasant, then numbing - before it all starts to repeat.

There’s still a thrill seeing Stallone dig out a classic character for one last rumble, but this is formulaic action fare.

When Abraham leaves the camera on Hiddleston and Olsen long enough to let them chew on their characters, the film offers flashes of something much more interesting: a handful of domestic scenes prove that the actors, not to mention Hank, would’ve been much better served by a ballsier script and braver direction.

It’s all still loose breakin’ cars and looser lovin’ women; for petrol-headed single teens only, eager for (surely) the last bit of mileage to be milked from the concept.

Stallone's shtick keeps it from collapsing into farce but, overall, Bullet To The Head is too derivative and disposable to warrant serious attention.

Writer/directors Fabio Grassadonia and Antonio Piazza’s debut explores over-familiar territory and suffers from fiercely ponderous pacing.

Entwining Irish folklore, dead-parent issues, eco-anxiety, and reality-show commentary, The Watched is an acceptable mid-tier horror. It'll be far more interesting to see what Shyamalan does next.

As for some of the big reveals, viewers will see them coming from a galaxy far, far away.

Patric’s bullet-scarred killer-gone-clean is a tired character in every sense, and no amount of exploding blood packs can make up for this much banality. At least there’s enough momentum to keep you from checking the timer every two minutes.

This genial, over-stuffed return boasts more national treasures than the British Museum. But tinny plots and predictable scripting mean it lives up to its title.

Vexingly, Ferrell flaunts his daft genius just enough to avert an entirely shite Christmas.

The predictable script lulls you into laughing at some very tired gags, but at least Hart refrains from screaming through the whole thing.

The cast do decent work, but Clooney’s ersatz Fargo misses the mark. A Coen pastiche rather than the real deal.

Gamely directed and acted, but a little threadbare in terms of plot and design, it’s suitably savage but not quite fun enough to forgive the flaws.

Protagonist Vivian (Shelby Young) may evoke memories of Natalie Portman in Black Swan or Suspiria’s Jessica harper. But she’s a comparatively underwritten character, failing to convince as a trauma victim.

Earnest intentions may be behind this bawdy yet heartfelt sport-quel, but it’s a largely unnecessary rematch.

It’s a histrionic distraction from the band doing their thing. Watch "Some Kind Of Monster" instead.

A late fight scene is staged with verve, and Gilpin is good value in an underwritten role. But given the politically fractious times we live in, this inane satire is a colossal missed opportunity.

The drugs don’t work – but thankfully Aniston does – in this slight but sly portrait of pain-meds hell, which wallows in self-pity when it should be grabbing our sympathy.

While it may prove a good gateway horror for some, more experienced genre fans will likely wish it was a bit nastier.

There are moments of sweetness and spontaneity with her BFFs (Alia Shawkat, Sarah Steele) but not enough to fill the hole where the film’s soul should be.

Dakota Johnson is a revelation in an adaptation that’s better than it should have been. But with the sex scenes and the drama lacking the required heat, it’s ultimately unsatisfying.

The ever-watchable Idris Elba and a handful of muscular action sequences are scuppered by a flaky-pastry plot which badly misjudges subject matter warranting more considered exploration.

Disappointingly limp, with precious few belly laughs, despite a try-hard attitude.

Four trivial stories, forced laughs: don't expect much more from Allen's latest postcard from Europe.

Potts does the singing himself, but that doesn’t stop Justin Zackham’s (The Big Wedding) contrived script from sounding bum notes throughout.

A rubbish fright flick.

Though it’s good to see Michelle Pfeiffer married to the mob again, she alone can’t redeem a lumbering farce that takes an unpleasantly sadistic glee in violence, murder and intimidation.

Punctuated by a handful of well-observed scenes that belong in a better film...it's ultimately a flat, ineffectual affair that goes off with a whimper rather than a bang.

Previously known as "Mariah Mundi And The Midas Box," the retitling came with the straight-to-DVD release – presumably to help hide it from fans of G.P. Taylor’s original book.

Cage disappointingly disappears for a good chunk of the runtime, but Martell and Jenkins hold the fort until he reemerges in suitably dramatic fashion during Arcadian’s climax. Sadly little else in the finale works so well, with ropey special effects and ludicrous set pieces undercutting the intrigue created at the start.

A film that also aims for gangster grit, community awareness and emotional impact, but compromises on everything.

Undeniably beautiful, oddly moving... and quickly tiresome.

The result? Not so much "World War Z" as World War Zzzz.

These truly are dark and terrible times if we are forced to accept the elitist problems of an Ivy League college admissions officer as shameless fodder for a romcom.

In later scenes, Guadagnino blurs the boundaries of the various levels of reality on show, which becomes alienating. He may have been inspired by Fellini’s 8½, but this comes across more like sub-David Lynch weirdness.

A stylistic cross between Se7en and The X-Files, this overlong, rigidly boring affair suffers from a whole list of ailments.

Entertaining in its own way, though probably not in the way intended.

When someone in Age Of Extinction carps about “crap sequels and remakes” in movies, you almost choke on the audacity.

The resulting puff-piece is a warning to crusading filmmakers about what happens after they’ve beaten the system.

The cinematography’s sumptuous, but pacing is very stop-start. Worse, there’s an aura of male entitlement, fuelled by the script’s uncritical reverence of its flawed philanderers.

The final showdown whisks up the requisite excitement, but the open-ended coda feels like an optimistic throw of the dice from the franchise showing meagre signs of Harry Potter longevity.

Little ones will love the bright action scenes, but the lack of wit and humanity that makes exec producer John Lasseter’s best work so special will leave grown-ups feeling frustratingly grounded.

Sadly, rather than provide insight into Boateng’s creative process, director Varon Bonicos is dazzled by the globetrotting, celeb-schmoozing lifestyle.

"I'm getting sick of this!" says Sigourney during one of Cold Light's many shoot-outs. Those tempted to give it the benefit of the doubt will swiftly reach the same conclusion.

Despite a typically strong performance from Blunt - and a fun, if one-note, Evans - neither the rise nor the inevitable fall ever feel all that compelling. It lacks the sheer audaciousness of the similarly structured The Wolf of Wall Street, and doesn’t come close to the energy of The Big Short, which whipped up furious indignation while being massively entertaining at the same time.

Pierce Brosnan, a long way from his Bond days, huffs and puffs his way through a boilerplate thriller that finds his ex-CIA hitman, Peter Devereaux, retired to a coffee shop in Switzerland.

Handicapped by its paper-thin premise, even a strong cast can’t lift Jake ‘son of Ridley’ Scott’s film out of indie-by-numbers mediocrity.

Kooler convinces, but it feels like TV sketches, with not enough laughs.

A genuine disappointment, given the talent involved, and a rare misstep for Penn, who can’t save this moribund vanity project from flatlining.

A vaguely promising premise is squandered in a convoluted neo-noir set-up.

Initially promising, this Aussie weepie branches unconvincingly into magic realism, with symbolism so clunky it hampers Gainsbourg’s involving turn.

This over-extended teen dystopia is treading water, coming up short on its trademark punchy plotting, teen self-discovery and the wonderful Woodley.

To its credit, Spike Lee’s remake isn’t a slavish imitation. On the other hand, its grit is a grey substitute for the original’s vision and verve. Disappointing.

To borrow a line Roberts spits at Collins, there's something about Mirror that's incredibly irritating. Fingers crossed Huntsman has more edge.

An unfathomably airless B-movie that betrays its USP by spreading the thrills too thinly. You can see why Stallone had second thoughts.

Fitful jolts aside, the devil trots out the old tunes wearily in this hoary and overcooked valentine to a horror classic.

Affection for the characters will bring fans in. But many will leave wishing the makers of one of the most enjoyable programmes of recent years had left well enough alone.

Bloodthirsty, derivative and xenophobic nonsense.

When it’s not being shrill, obvious or awkwardly wistful, Nigel Calendar Girls Cole’s comedy is quite funny.

“That was exciting!” says Willis after he and Courtney survive a 20-storey leap through a plate glass window. “Want to go again?” Frankly, Bruce, we’re fine to leave it here.

Two characters, who you won’t like, insulting each other for two hours. Give it a miss and rewatch Midnight Run instead.

Marvel’s woes won’t be solved by a disjointed mini-Avengers that doesn't make a great deal of sense. But the cats are Flerken great.

If the final third’s sudden, Twilight Zone-lite genre relocation seems desperate, the hollow climax confirms suspicions: vital supplies of narrative oxygen are lacking here.

Two-parts entertainment to one-part frustration, Jim Kouf's Gang Related is like a diver who leaps promisingly into a triple twist - - only to smack his head against the board on the way back down.

In the hands of director George Nolfi, what could have been a fascinating insight into street versus classical martial arts instead becomes a generic fight flick, with a script so heavy-handed it feels like it was bashed out with knuckle-dusters.

"Welcome to rock bottom!" sighs Hasselhoff at one stage, pretty much summing up this textbook exercise in sloppy seconds. Here's hoping the piranhas have a better agent than he does.

Its attempt to cram in both origin story and follow-up adventure makes it a long haul for the target tinies.

Bickering turns to bonding over the course of a predictable affair that only comes to life during a Texan steak-eating contest that has Babs ingest a mountain of meat.

Diaries is dark and gruesome, but with little in the way of genuine shock or surprise, you should expect the expected.

Despite its 95-minute running time, Banks’ wild adventure feels drawn out. Never sure if it wants to conjure real suspense and scares (it fails) or embrace riotous comedy in a full-on bear hug, Cocaine Bear also suffers from moments of cartoonish CGI.

Though it gives good splat and the scenery’s to die for, Hansel & Gretel gets just about everything wrong. Hammy, boring, chronically unfunny - there’ll be nightmares before bedtime.

Morbius may be a living vampire, but this supervillain origin story is dead on arrival. A rote, lifeless and cynical attempt to expand Sony’s Spidey-Verse.

A swearing dog voiced by Jamie Foxx is funny – once. Having set up its ribald premise, however, Strays – an R-rated riposte to such talking-pooch heart-stirrers as 2017’s A Dog’s Purpose, complete with cameos from that film’s stars – has to relentlessly and tiresomely up the ante, plastering the screen with so many peeing, pooping, and humping tail-waggers it feels more like A Dog’s Porno.

Like a Richard Curtis movie with an Instagram filter, director Christian Ditter makes everything look pretty.

Misguided in the extreme. A scene in which Kitsch and co aim blindly for the broadest of targets – and miss by miles – proves painfully apt.

Eckhart makes a decent Damon stand-in, but there’s nothing here than hasn’t been done (better) before.

After pretty much inventing the modern-day comedy drama, Judd Apatow here gets frivolous, to patchy effect.

Celia Imrie and Emily Watson are a breath of fresh air and lead Raffey Cassidy fares better than most of the kids, but it’s not enough to save this dreary caper.

The odd spirited turn aside, this is a throwback to the bad old ’90s days of comic-book movies.

Luchini’s excellent, but this is guilty of gross tonal uncertainty.

Even though the ever-reliable Galifianakis has fun bromancing the stone-faced Hamm, the end result feels like a decaff version of Date Night.

Between its farcical script, soulless relationships and waxwork performances, this is a final chapter that will please only the most devout fans. At least the bleeding wolves have stopped talking.

Without the darkness or depth of the Harry Potter movies, Artemis Fowl fails to find an audience over 10 years old

This stiffly scripted film never quite stirs the emotions.

For all its garish aesthetics, sly feminism and wall-to-wall nudity, writer/director Anne Biller’s camp-com is almost too much of a good thing, outstaying its welcome at a paint-drying two hours.

Sadly, any hopes Mark Tonderai's US follow-up to 2008's "Hush" could have some "Cabin In The Woods"-style surprises up its sleeve are swiftly dashed as its talented lead is reduced to being just another scantily clad babe getting stalked by a psycho.

This is a tonal misfire, its characters cut down by a blitzkrieg of whip pans, CGI and thunderous percussion. And with Ritchie again rummaging in his increasingly threadbare bag of tricks, the result is a movie more jaundiced than jaunty.

Despite some appealing lensing and an edgier tone than a lot of Christian dramas (nudity, swearing, and in one memorable moment, self-cannibalism), this is a movie with zero subtext and even less subtlety.

Hell, yeah? Hellish, more like. Despite its lead’s best efforts, this disastrous deboot is a gore-soaked bore.

Coasting on charismatic performances and a quality crew, Gosling’s debut proves two things: screenwriting is hard, and stylish and stylised are very different things.

Believers will be more interested in what he uncovers than the layman, who will soon identify this ’80s-set adap of Lee Strobel’s book as a tedious sermon that’s preaching to the converted.