Tough, efficient little thriller but one which leaves a nasty taste in the mouth due to the thoroughly unlikeable cast of characters (protagonist included) and rampant misogyny throughout.

Imagine a version of Tiny Furniture without Lena Dunham's wit and distinctive voice, without a single memorable character or engaging scene and without even the merest scintilla of interest. Nicely shot it may be but films like this are why people hate indie cinema.

The marketing campaign, with its beautifully realised virals, didn't set a foot wrong but it turns out all the filmmakers' artistry was employed in getting us to buy a ticket with very little left over for the main event. It's not all dreadful - the initial set-up has a certain something, Fassbender is terrific fun as a fey robot and Noomi Rapace is a remarkably sturdy heroine given how little she has to work with. But there's no story here to speak of and the tension generated as a result is negligible. What a missed opportunity.

Director John Schlesinger slices the ham extra thick for this nonsensical, justly forgotten schlockfest about a Voodoo-ish religion taking over New York's cognoscenti. Written by Mark Frost, who went on to co-create Twin Peaks, and adapted from a novel called The Religion, you can imagine throughout the sort of turgid prose this began life as. Keen not to appear racist the film indiscriminately demonises all religions, various ethnic minorities, rich people, bleeding heart liberals, middle-aged single females and, most hilariously, milk.