David Robert Mitchell’s thrillingly tantalising LA looms like a glistening crown of thorny trinkets with owl headed women lurching at their prey, an unidentified dog killer (or killers, are there more of them?) on the loose, and a gothic rock group named Jesus and the Brides of Dracula, whose albums hide clues to the film’s meta mystery. Part neo-noir, part fantastically gruesome horror, 'Under the Silver Lake' is a nihilistic nod to the noir genre and a pessimistically poised attack at pop culture.

Mitchell is perhaps overly ambitious in terms of structure at times. There are more than a few plot holes in store and several characters dip in and out of the screen who rarely are given much development or backstory. 'Under the Silver Lake' feels like a film that has festered for a little too long in the mind of its creator, with a result that feels rather too far-fetched for its targeted attack on toxic masculinity and current culture to potently deliver. However, the soundtrack is always rapturously original and Michael Perry’s set design rakes in a pleasing plethora of quality scenes. Similarly, the skilfully sharp cinematography by Mike Gioulakis melds mellifluously with Mitchell’s penetrating script filled with keen and cutting observations of our symbolically saturated society.

Andrew Garfield takes a turn away from his comfortable awkwardly charming romantic lead role to star as the film’s plausibly pervy antihero whose quest to discover the truth behind the death of literal girl-next-door Sarah, played by Riley Keough, takes him to the cavernous underworld of LA’s elite. There’s an overwhelming sense of Mitchell’s malaise and abject abhorrence of modern life. An aged composer, supposedly the omnipotent overlord of all popular music to have existed since the 1960s comments that instant hits are "as common as tits and hamburgers" and amidst the film’s pseudo thriller fantasy lies a critique of patriarchy filtered through the unflinchingly objectifying gaze of its protagonist. It’s an admirable attempt, but the inconsistencies in tone fail to solidify the case against male driven hierarchies and it’s unclear whether we should be laughing along with the innumerable close ups of women’s buttocks or downright repulsed by the ironic lack of agency any of the women in the film are given.

'Under the Silver Lake' mercilessly mocks millennial trends; our protagonist finds himself at pop up parties filled with hosts who proffer him a pin from a cherry to "pop" a balloon affixed to a dancer’s leotard as they welcome him to "purgatory", elsewhere he is lead down to a crypt where ravers drink at tables made of headstones. The film is peppered with religious references and inverted iconocraphy as one of the Brides looms large as an occult looking Madonna in her black sparkled veil to deliver a mournful cover of LuLu’s ‘To Sir, with Love’. There are certainly more than moments of finesse and for the cynics 'Under the Silver Lake' undeniably provides apathetic answers, but the wildly surrealist slant it often slides into is less unnerving and more downright disheartening.

Less full of minty fresh zeal than its namesake, 'Fisherman’s Friends' foists the tale of 10 serenading songsters spending their salient hours sailing the seas as fisherman and their unexpected chart success in 2010 upon audiences as a feelgood film full of hearty wholesome charm. In reality the predictably trite plotline fails to make much of a splash.

While the crux of the film seems rooted in a determination to whip up some sympathy for Cornish patriotism, one can’t help but feel the timing of showcasing fervent separatist sentiments seems entirely uncomfortable. This woeful attempt at delivering a heart-warming tale of unlikely victories and underdog appreciation feels like a hollow tick box exercise. Unruly local rag-taggle group of undiscovered stars with no desire for a life of stardom? Check. Bright, luscious views of the British Coast and a nostalgic jingoism? Check. Will they, won’t they romance between two characters torn between worlds? Check.

Despite Daniel May and Tuppence Middleton’s best efforts, their characters’ awkward love story haemorrhages much of the film’s narrative. May’s lamentable London boy, Danny, becomes enamoured with Middleton’s maddeningly bland local girl Alwyn who, for her trouble, has a poorly written backstory involving an overprotective father and a Montague-Capulet esque feud. It’s a shame, because there is a sense that had the screenplay bothered to delve a little more into character development, the two could have at least made some aspect relatively believable. Alas, owing to Piers Ashworth and Meg Leonard’s scuppered script there is little pathos to be eeked out from what feels to be a rather wrong-footed romance.

Though there are some pleasing vocals, particularly those filmed in St Kew Parish Church, where the group originally recorded their first album, it’s hard to imagine sea shanties have the capacity to gather much of a following. The specificity of the genre of folk music ensures that the film fails to capture the same loveable charm as similar feelgood films like 'Sunshine on Leith'' achieved, purely because there’s not much for the audience to hum along to. Often, it all feels like a lacklustre 'Doc Martin' episode that should have remained shoved in a back room and left to rot in the bowels of 2010.

‘Children of the Snowland’ is one of the best documentaries I’ve ever seen. From the first scene to the last it had me on the edge of my seat, laughing and crying and falling in love with it’s main protagonists. These beautiful, funny, curious, sensitive and clever young people who for the sake of their families were prepared to take on one of the most perilous and physically challenging journeys and in the process learned so much about themselves, their beautiful country and the cruel circumstances that led their parents to make the most heartbreaking decision of their lives. I felt so grateful to be allowed to tag along.

Whenever privileged white westerners make any kind of film about the rest of the world there is a danger that they either put themselves in the centre of the narrative or that they treat their subject as an exotic bird to be watched in awe and not interacted with. Thankfully the makers of ‘Children of Snowland’ did none of that. Instead they provided three of the youngsters with camera equipment and some training and let them tell their own story. And the result is spectacular. There is a great sense of discovery throughout since these children were very young when they left their home and so have very few memories and are not at all used to the way of life in the remote mountain villages of Nepal. But there is also familiarity and an inevitable sense of belonging as they breathe the mountain air and wrapped in the love of their family, slowly find their roots.

Family, truth, inevitability, time, loyalty. These are the precious strands of saffron running through this film which make it absolutely compelling.

'Everybody Knows' is a thriller, but not in a conventional sense. It's not about a heightened sense of fear, but an immersion in the realism of family and village life. So identifiable and human, that when disaster strikes for main character Laura (Penelope Cruz), it keeps you on the edge of your seat with compassion. Laura is on a trip back home to Spain from Argentina with her children, for a family wedding. Her 16 year-old daughter is played by Carla Campra, whose performance stands out, then lingers for being as riveting as it is natural.

Like the walls of the sun-bleached brick houses of the Spanish village where the story is set, this is a film built from many parts. It’s a puzzle film, a mystery to be solved by the viewer. It’s immersive, I could taste the dust in the wind and mouthfuls of the meals that Penelope Cruz’s character could hardly eat. I didn't want it to end. The chemistry between real-life couple Penélope Cruz and Javier Bardem (Paco) sizzles out from the screen and seems inevitable, befitting the script and sumptuous to watch.

Some of the early dialogue, action and cinematic choices early on in the film may feel a little heavy-handed in terms of plot direction to begin with. It could even feel as though the writer director, Asghar Farhadi, is underestimating his audience. But in a more subtle way, this is the genius of the film. This creates the sense of inevitability, that drives the film forward, told to the audience first with the with the clockwork mechanism of the village clock in the opening credit sequence. Family life, and love can seem inevitable. And with this Asghar Farhadi asks, is love inevitable? And it’s a fascinating question to ask. As such the symmetry of this film is perfect. Intellectually it's like a chewing gum that doesn't run out of flavour.

'Everybody Knows' doesn’t have the subtlety of Asghar Farhadi’s other films, like 'A Separation', for instance. This is a more glamorous and melodramatic beast. But even with a large serving of Hollywood glamour, it’s still peppered with the realism of messy interiors and tired decor, which makes the imperfect lives of the characters seem even more real.

Simon Amstell constantly defies expectation. As the host of Never Mind the Buzzcocks his caustic wit and self-deprecating charm married with a total lack of affectation lent him an air of cool invincibility, an image utterly at odds with his stand-up persona, which dealt – and deals – almost exclusively in halting, painfully honest vulnerability. And neither of the above serve as any preparation for his turn as the impishly amoral Eric Sacks in 'Black Pond', a role he seemingly procured through bald-faced pushiness, challenging his friend Will Sharpe to insert him into an already completed film, and creating one of the most deliriously enjoyable comic turns of the decade in the process. More recently he was responsible for the feature-length pseudo-doc 'Carnage', an ode to veganism starring Samantha Spiro as a singing cow.

The surprising thing about 'Benjamin' therefore is it’s the first of his career moves that feels wholly unsurprising, playing as it does like a Greatest Hits album. The acerbic, machine gun patter of his presenting days combined with the aching tenderness of his live shows, finished off with the gleeful blurring of fiction and reality that made 'Carnage' such a mischievous joy.

A familiar figure to long-time fans, the titular Benjamin Oliver is a pallid, mop-haired (vegan) creative with a penchant for thin, ill-looking boys, and star Colin Morgan deftly replicates many of Amstell’s own tics and mannerisms in his brazen yet masterfully restrained central performance. It’s hard to say how much of this was at Amstell’s behest and how much was down to the actor eyeballing his director between takes, à la Peter Sellers in Kubrick’s similarly melancholic 'Lolita'. It’s undoubtedly true the script makes no effort to distance Amstell and his besweatered creation. Some lines are lifted almost verbatim from his stand-up shows, and indeed one scene features a goofy yet fragile Joel Fry as a flailing pub comic, performing a bit that could easily be read as all of Amstell’s insecurities about his work in the form translated into the verbal equivalent of blunt force trauma.

Off the stage Fry continues to impress, brilliantly capturing the pain of an artist adrift in a sea of more successful peers. Enthralled and ensnared by the beguiling Billie (a deliciously reckless Jessica Raine), his is the story that lands the film’s only real emotional gut-punches. Though a beautifully understated cameo from Nathan Stewart-Jarrett rivals it by eloquently cutting to the heart of Morgan’s wounded auteur in the course of a single brief exchange.

In many ways 'Benjamin' is an examination of how we deal with success, and the stresses of trying to maintain it. Both the film and its subject exist in a perpetual state of rictus. We are never allowed to relax. Every decision Benjamin faces is paralysing and every utterance the least-suited for the situation at hand. “Maybe we should just have fun” he observes wistfully at one point. An innocuous enough phrase in the context of a conversation with a prospective boyfriend, but one which masks a rich seam of existential desperation. A terror that the niche he has spent years carving out for himself is neither desirable nor sustainable, and whatever form of fun he currently has is resoundingly not the kind he needs.

If the film has a flaw it’s that it lacks the naked ambition and originality of 'Carnage', Amstell’s directorial debut, and while Morgan’s performance is endlessly relatable, the script doesn’t allow him to plumb the depths of his character as much as one feels he could, so it falls short of being genuinely affecting.

Ultimately 'Benjamin' feels like the natural culmination of numerous threads which have wended their way through Amstell’s career to date. And as such one finds it hard to predict where he might go next. It’s fair to say that whatever he chooses to do now, short of Benjamin II, it cannot but be surprising.