Train to Busan doesn’t make many emotional demands of the viewer, nor does it further the zombie genre in any significant way. But you don’t really need to break new ground if you can tread familiar paths so confidently.

M.S. Dhoni is a blandly professional piece of work. This might be enough for fans of the man, but for anyone who’d hoped that the first ever film about a still-active Indian cricketer might have traces of insight or daring, this will likely be a disappointment.

Fuqua’s film, set in the 1870s, has a posse so breathtakingly multi-racial it would seem to turn genre convention on its head. Yet, the film never suggests that the white men among the seven had any problem taking orders from a black man, or that there was any friction between a Native American and a former Indian killer. It’s revisionist for revisionist’s sake—there’s no political charge in its challenging of genre conventions.

Aniruddha Roy Chowdhury’s film is low on nuance, high on moral certitude

The problem with Sully is that nothing apart from the incident at its centre is particularly interesting: not Sully’s financial problems, or the flashback to another tricky landing he made, or the committee hearings. By the time we’re shown the entire flight and landing for the second time—and for no good reason—it’s clear that Eastwood is so enamored of his subject that he assumes the audience is as well.

Nitya Mehra’s time-travelling film is pat but fairly effective…

What Island City achieves is far more important than where it trips up. As a tonally tricky, slyly subversive mood piece, it finds itself in a very small group of Hindi films. It’s also an intriguing new entry in the long tradition of films that explore the spiritual heartache of living in Mumbai.

A Flying Jatt is derivative, sloppily structured and, especially in its latter stages, tacky beyond belief. That it might also be the best Indian superhero film ever (barring Mr India, if that qualifies) is an indication of how low the bar is set.

Shergill is fast turning into one of Hindi cinema’s great sad sacks, and Mishra into one of its finest mutterers. Their collective enthusiasm renders the film’s lack of subtlety endearing and its gaps in narrative logic inconsequential. I’m having a hard time remembering the last time I watched a Hindi film this silly but still found myself laughing.

Though Rustom uses all the sensational material the Nanavati case has to offer, the treatment is laughably silly…