If there's anyone who can push the envelope with considered confidence, it's Luca Guadagnino. Although the Italian filmmaker's work has garnered some criticism over the past few years (cannibal lovers and questionable age gaps spring to mind), even his most provocative fables show visceral complexity and affection towards their subjects. So it seems rather strange that After the Hunt - a film so self-conscious of its own provocation - prove to be nothing more than white noise. 

Julia Roberts plays Alma - a Yale philosophy professor who's competing for tenure against her suspiciously close colleague Hank (Andrew Garfield). Roberts is an understated sensation - she has an air of snow queen about her but never shows signs of thawing. We've seen Roberts thrive in larger than life personalities before - such as the iconic Erin Brockovich. Yet it's to her credit (and more pointedly her range) how she commands the screen here with unshakeable stoicism. 

Alma's frostiness repels the buoyancy of husband Fredrick (Michael Stuhlbarg) but charms the likes of Hank and Maggie (Ayo Edebiri) - a mediocre student with very rich parents. However, when Maggie appears at Alma's doorstep one evening claiming that Hank "crossed the line" with her - Alma is forced to reckon with not just her present relationships but the demons of her past as well. 

The current social landscape is more politically weaponised than ever and the debate of "cancel culture" is a veritable minefield in of itself. Screenwriting newcomer Nora Garrett makes an unreliable narrator the focal point of this accusation drama and though the film's moral ambiguity has recently been put under fire - what's most frustrating about Garrett's script is its total inability to commit to any of its ideas at all. There are fragmented moments that reveal a more perceptive film about systemic abuse and those who unwillingly become a part of it. But the film is convinced that the shear allusion to these ideas is enough to form a fully fledged story. It seems to think that its thematic vagueness keeps the audience wrapped around its finger; instead we're continually unravelling further from any sense of satisfaction. Perhaps we've just been spoilt by back-to-back collaborations with Challengers writer Justin Kuritzkes, but the discordance between page and screen hasn't felt as apparent in a Guadagnino flick as it does here. 

Even composers Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross - frequent collaborators of Guadagnino - are off their game here. Disparate segments of clock ticking falsely suggest time plays an important role in the story - but in actuality it feels like a last minute attempt to salvage tension in a film where there is a decided lack thereof.

In defence of Guadagnino, he's trying and somewhat succeeding in elevating an underworked script. The film exists in a weird genre limbo, never really certain of its own intentions or tone. In a way, it sort feels like it's in a game of chess with itself. But thankfully that which could be totally mundane, is occasionally salvaged by Guadagnino's rich visual flair. 

This isn't director Kelly Fremon Craig's first rodeo, making waves with her candid though seemingly underrated The Edge of Seventeen, Craig winds the clock back to 1970 a time of no-fail pot roast and Norman Greenbaum. 

​It works that certain kind of magic that only the coming-of-age genre has to offer. Craig's approach gives the film this distinctly timeless feel, despite the retro landscape, there's a real sense of universality in themes. Visually it's admittedly bland and safe in its presentation but for the most part it’s a solid script that gifts its supporting characters with some wonderfully compelling moments. Rachel McAdams is just such a beauty to behold, a real guardian angel who not only steals every scene but completely runs away with the entire film. Meanwhile, newcomer Abby Ryder Fortson makes the performance her own with a decided awkwardness in every tiny moment. 
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The scripts calls for a lot more levity that just unfortunately isn’t there but if one things for certain is that Fremon Craig has such an affectionate and empathetic understanding of her target audience. an often whimsical and at times moving tale of pre-teen awkwardness and the tumultuous transition into womanhood, Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret is exactly the comfort that young girls deserve. 

Despite previously establishing himself as the sole standout director amongst the usually indistinguishable marvel sludge, James Gunn's highly anticipated vol 3 absolutely reeks of Kevin Feige’s sticky corporate fingers. 

There's a promising story here - on paper at least - but this felt like an incredibly rushed job. it’s absolutely all over the place and any of Gunn's usual creativity is lost to the endless abyss of the Disney void.

Structurally, it’s frustrating. Rocket’s backstory and the present day guardians adventure never meld together into one concise narrative. by and large, the story feels like a few rough post-it note ideas strung together in a thinly plotted, slap dash finale that desperately lacks the key ingredients that makes the guardians so profound. In truth, it's not very well realised at all and Gunn fails to find the right emotional balance between each of the team (despite this usually being one of his strengths as a filmmaker). Here it genuinely feels like he’s at a loose end with most of these characters - the entire roster feel under-utilised and none of them particularly service the story at all. 

Perhaps the biggest problem with vol 3 is that the emotional beats that are there feel extremely contrived and manipulative. it spends all of its time aggressively convincing you that it’s an emotional film, when in actuality it’s just very half-baked and disingenuous. Gunn plays the heartfelt moments like a cosmic xylophone, but in his attempt to deliver a grande finale, he often confuses sentimentality for melodrama. Vol 3 mostly relies on the work of its predecessors to earn its emotional payoff, which it honestly doesn’t. 

As someone who has formed a deep relationship with these films from a young age, it saddens me to admit that guardians vol 3 isn’t exempt from mavel’s rapid state of creative decline. It completely lacks that same spark we know and love, often feeling very tired and worn out. 

Whether your'e a film buff or not, if there's a new Quentin Tarantino movie coming out you'll know about it. The highly stylish and provocative auteur has the incredible ability to draw massive crowds with his event-type movies. Making a name for himself with all time greats such as Pulp Fiction and Kill Bill - Tarantino has left his stamp on mainstream cinema with over-the-top violence and marvellously quippy dialogue. Operating for almost three decades, we are reaching the twilight years of his directing career as Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is said to be his penultimate film - ten being the magic number. ​A faded television star and his stuntman strive to kickstart their careers in the twilight years of Hollywood's golden age...

There's star power but no stardust in Tarantino's Hollywood walk of shame. This spangly sixties drama feels like a warm evening stroll along sunset strip, but then your feet start to ache and swell and you question why you kept going. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood straps you in for over two painstaking hours of drawn out scenes only to catastrophically fall apart in the third act. Renowned for his game-changing narrative framework, there is absolutely no structure or direction whatsoever and due to the weaknesses of his script, leaving the biggest question on your mind walking out of this stodgy romp to be What was the point?

To some degree there is meaning in this largely meaningless movie. Tarantino recalls pioneer of the spaghetti-western Sergio Leone not only through the cinema doting title, but through a range of pans and crane shots which overview LA as though it were the expansive wild, wild west - not to mention DiCaprio's TV cowboy Rick Dalton. In fact, of all Tarantino's work, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood expresses him most as a director, a true lover of cinema. It's rather magical adopting the QT POV - overflowing with nostalgia he walks us through the behind-the-scenes of western shows, ingeniously transforming the camera into the on set TV cam which becomes disrupted by Rick Dalton stuttering his lines, reversing the pan and returning to its starting position. But perhaps the most magical moment comes when a fabulous (though sparingly utilised) Sharon Tate makes her way to a local theatre to watch herself in the Dean Martin led James Bond rip-off The Wrecking Crew. Margot Robbie perfectly captures the wide eyed wonder and hopefulness of the Hollywood dream, anonymously watching herself in the pictures and enjoying the audiences' positive reception. 

But Tarantino gets way over his head, from his down-right racist depiction of Bruce Lee to the extremely self-indulgent and lacklustre screenplay. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is nothing more than a small tale of a fading star attempting to revive his career; all the other elements such as Sharon Tate and the Manson Murders annoyingly fade away into the backdrop. Like with Inglorious Basterds, Tarantino rewrites history but does so in a very anti-climatic and irrelevant manner. It's not a case of him "brilliantly subverting expectations" - it's the fact that we spend copious amounts of time with Rick Dalton grumbling about his career, patiently waiting for the underlying suspense to come to a head. The dissatisfying denouement collapses the entire film as a result, leaving more than enough to be desired.

But all is not lost - It's February 1969, Los Bravos is blasting out of the radio in Rick Dalton's Cadillac, and as the sun goes down the neon lights blinker on all over tinsel town. Robert Richardson's yellow-tinged, sun-kissed cinematography is dazzling, melding together with the best Tarantino soundtrack since Jackie Brown, creating a shimmery, hazy daydream. Tarantino's camerawork isn't flamboyant like his previous instalments - Once Upon a Time in Hollywood celebrates genre conventions like the iconic hip-level-shot whilst energising itself with standout tracking shots. 

Though struggling and rising actors are at the heart of this cinema celebration, the stars in it don't shine too brightly. DiCaprio becomes surprisingly one-dimensional as down on his luck Rick Dalton; on one hand he captures the crushing defeat of a faded actor, on the other his performance is really monotonous and unlikeable. Robbie is completely cast aside as the ill-fated Sharon Tate, and does the best with what little screen time she has. But ultimately, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood owes itself to Brad Pitt in his scene stealing turn as the loveably laid back side-man Cliff Booth. Summed up perfectly by Rick in the very opening scene, Cliff is there to "carry the load" - Cliff is the best buddy anybody could ask for, I could spend hours watching Pitt cruise along the highway carrying out chores for Rick.  His smooth, feet on the dashboard type vibe sets himself aside from Rick's high maintenance, sipping on Bloody Marys and chomping on celery sticks. 

​Regardless of the typical Tarantino shock and awe, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood feels empty and purposeless. Tarantino lets excitement get the better of him. This is his most personal film yet, but he gets too caught up in capturing the nostalgia of sixties Hollywood. Though clearly made with passion, this feels like a chore to sit through - the dialogue is way less quick witted and the screenplay in general has a complete lack of structure and zest. Given the historical context of Sharon Tate and the Manson Murders, Tarantino has more than enough material to toy with but the outcome is something far less daring.