There’s a difference between a bad film and a bad time, and Verity is an excellent bad time.

Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Digger is enormous, strange, technically dazzling and so determined to be itself that even its misfires have a certain electricity.

Matt Johnson’s Tony understands more than a conventional coming-of-age story, it is a film about a young man discovering, with increasing discomfort, just how little he knows.

The monsters are tactile, weird and genuinely disgusting, and Cregger lets them stay disgusting instead of cutting away. Hays and Ryan Holladay’s score does the synth-pulse thing that Carpenter invented, but the intelligence is in the placement.

Lowery’s answer is to refuse the psychological register entirely. Whatever sits unfinished between these two gets expelled as an actual vengeful presence, a thing with intent that has to be dealt with in the room.

Director Padraic McKinley keeps the value front and centre. The most abstract thing in a crime film becomes something with mass that pulls down on a spine.

My grandmother taped Looney Tunes off the TV onto three or four VHS cassettes for the grandkids, and we played them until the tape gave out. Seeing them again, in a courtroom, litigating: the tape is still running.

If a movie glimpses the magic of life, for fractions of seconds, it is worthwhile. “Amziah” is a dose I wasn’t ready for.

Nobody in this house locks anything. There's a pool, there are children, there's a killer renting across the road, and the gate swings free for 10 hours of television. The Bowdens are obsessed with their own security and incapable of practising any.

There are bigger movies, deeper movies and certainly more consequential movies. In the Grey doesn't seem particularly bothered. It arrives. It looks terrific. It moves.