At long last, someone is brave enough to answer the question of whether there is anything grosser than watching Dennis Quaid eat shrimp.

Thought if anyone could make the smack-addled writings of William S Burrows romantic it would have to be Luca Guadagnino, but alas.

Amy Adams is phenomenal as an artist who set her career aside to raise an adorable child; she sells the madness of isolation as her identity attempts to reclaim itself with hallucinations (maybe) that she’s turning into a dog.

I suppose it’s kinda cool that the hottest young stars in Hollywood now establish their cred by the rite of passage of playing gay. In Daniel Minahan’s adaptation of Shannon Pufahl’s 2019 novel, at least Jacob Elordi and Daisy Edgar Jones avoid tragic weepy stereotypes in this handsome literary take on queer identities in the 1950s American West.

Told in three acts in reverse, Mike Flanagan has made a lovely little Stephen King adaptation about how Tom Hiddleston came to be an exceptional dancer who contains multitudes.

Ron Howard dives into the dark scheming heart of humanity in recounting a true story of self-promotional Galapagos settlers in the 1930s.