It’s a slow-burning, well-acted thriller that’s only really let down in its third act: an unsatisfyingly limp denouement that fails to convey what’s at stake with any sort of suspense.

Snowden proves surprisingly sympathetic. His intentions appear to have no subtext, but sadly neither does the doc; the irony of an infodump approach to mass surveillance goes disappointingly unexploited.

Im Sang-Soo’s exposé of a Seoul family corporation is stymied by a humourless regurgitation of observations about power, corruption and lies.

Not subtle (and might put you off getting hitched), but hits its mark with baseball-bat force.

Robert Pattinson delivers another film-stealing supporting turn.

It works hard, and the first half hour is textbook creepy, but the oldschool grab-bag of shocks struggles to jolt a dour script to life.

Never sure if it wants to be a hard-edged character drama or pacy action-thriller, Son Of A Gun has plenty to admire between the tonal wobbles.

Throughout, there’s a tendency to descend into farce, which yields laughs, but ultimately hampers these Letters’ potential to say something more profound.

Lowden and Findlay excel in their roles, but Mark Gill’s Moz-movie needed more: both more music and more “people who are young and alive”.

It’s unashamedly broad, sentimental and clichéd, but Cox anchors proceedings with wit and tenderness, while Smith (who can act and shoot at the same time) adds wonder.

Laugh-out-loud in places. Frustratingly flat in others. Sporadic giggles guaranteed. Fey and Poehler’s comic chemistry is undeniable; shame the script didn’t get a Liz Lemon rewrite.

A classy ensemble (Charlotte Rampling, Harriet Walter) supports Jim Broadbent’s amusingly tetchy lead, while youthful flashbacks evoke a mood of romantic yearning.

Boasts sporadically electrifying visuals but a frustratingly messy mythology.

Sadly, a generic script doesn’t aid the film’s overall ambitions. A little less than the sum of its parts, Run Rabbit Run is ultimately more intriguing than outright terrifying.

A shallow, slow-burn horror that takes an age to get to the strong meat but looks good doing it.

The Russo brothers deliver a fun and very current take on tech vs humanity with a core message on how human connection conquers all in this visually stunning sci-fi family adventure. However, the rushed storyline and vast list of underdeveloped characters ultimately let the movie down.

It’s Carry On Up The Catwalk with TV’s favourite fashionistas. The perfect girl’s night out for the Mamma Mia crowd.

Handsomely mounted and energetically played, this movie captures much of the real genius of James Brown... then obscures it with needless chronological fiddling.

It’s a poetic elegy to a lost tribe that conjures up the Meryans’ secret lifestyle via surreal rituals and stunning widescreen visuals, although an over-explained voiceover and clunky symbolism sometimes weaken the spell.

Like Ferrari’s motors, the production is sleek, expensive-looking and runs handsomely. But unlike the brand’s famous 0-60 mph starting capabilities, Mann’s film takes time to run the tyres in, only really reaching top gear in its second half. It works as a companion piece to Le Mans ‘66, but doesn’t manage to surpass it.

Everything gets just too damn convoluted for its own good, and it’s hard to care what becomes of Haggis’ characters as they’re shifted around. Any one of the strands expanded alone might have worked better.

Jared Hess's indie sensibilities help to elevate a video game adaptation that is boosted further by Jack Black's irrepressible star turn. The special effects could be better, as could the female roles. But this remains an entertaining fantasy adventure that makes light work of what might appear to be unpromising source material.

Davis, Dinklage, Zegler, and the Games thrill, but Snow doesn’t quite summon the substance needed to fulfil this long-haul prequel’s ambitions.

It’s impossible to escape the sense that Banville’s work is best experienced on paper.

It’s ‘Hello Dahl-y’, as Anne Hathaway’s Grand High Witch brings camp not creepiness to Zemeckis’ entertaining fairytale.

It’s technically a doc, but neither Rivers nor his inscrutable subject is interested in backstory.

Reynolds moves on from Green Lantern in Satrapi’s psycho-romp, pitched awkwardly between funny-haha and funny-peculiar, but blessed with enough style and smarts to merit a look.

The seventh and supposedly final Scream is never as sharp or as smart as the series' best, but it still has a few neat tricks up its billowing sleeve. Enjoyably self-aware and satisfyingly bloody, this may be imitation Craven, but it proves Scream's slasher-whodunnit formula is still potent enough to thrill.