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.