Phil Hoad

The film scrabbles to come up with a suitably calamitous climax, though, and the focus settles too much on the incel. This is good news for Butterfield, who shows his range in shifting from schlubby haplessness to good ol’ boy posturing, but less so for Martell, equally impressive in his weaseliness. The two of them make an endearing pair: a bipartisan declaration of American incompetence.

Radiating a sickly ambience, The Last Assassins is happily far more granular visually speaking.

The overblown finale unites the family therapy and gorehound strands, as the demonic hunter does his atavistic worst – while everyone else competes to sacrifice themselves for each other (and vocalises their need to do so). It’s like the Scary Movie franchise did a splatterhouse Last of the Mohicans skit.

This unsettling parable has a scriptural concision and mystery.

This docu-portrait verges on corporate promo at times, though there are a couple of telling vignettes in the second half.

Where it’s lacking in psychological bite, Wardriver’s demi-monde is convincingly venal in general terms. Thomas lends it enough fast-driving attack and romanticised ferment that it might just pass in the darkness for a Michael Mann film.

This hectic fantasia struggles to plumb deeper depths.

Here is a visually epic and surprisingly positive documentary about a maligned subculture: football ultras.

Amid this farrago, the political critique comes over more like accidental backspatter than meaningful statement.

With an unerring but sardonic sense of how death presses in on us all, this is a promisingly pungent debut from Mitchell.