It's all enough to make you wonder if this is a flight that should have stayed grounded.

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.