There’s a committed performance from a spunky Adria Arjona in the Guest director Adam Wingard’s decent B-movie but it’s missing some sharper weaponry

There’s something rather fascinating about an indie director who heads to the A-list before returning to their roots, a wider skillset and different perspective gained for better or worse. Working within a stricter system – the tiniest of choices being agreed upon by the largest of committees – can often be a creatively crushing experience that we’ve heard gruesomely detailed by many who survived it but the expansion of what one is allowed to technically do with a bigger budget can also be instructive and enriching. The dream scenario is bringing back the good and allowing the bad to inspire new work that makes the most of how unshackled one again now is.

There are plenty of examples of how this hasn’t worked. Neill Blomkamp following Elysium and Chappie with chintzy low-budget horror Demonic (easily his least effective film although since opening his own AI “studio” I imagine the worst is yet to come), Marc Forster following Quantum of Solace and World War Z with a blind Blake Lively film that, ironically, no one saw while Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck went from the greatness of Half Nelson to the blandness of Captain Marvel to the headache of Freaky Tales. But then we were also gifted with the hometown intimacy of Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma after he came back from space for Gravity and Hogwarts for the Prisoner of Azkaban while Karyn Kusama brushed off the nightmare of Æon Flux with the brilliantly creepy dinner party thriller The Invitation.

‘I’d just made two films in America. Shooting on a Lancashire farm was very different. There was mud everywhere – and we’d be eating dripping, jam butties and fried eggs in buns’

Whistle Down the Wind was originally a novel written by my mother, Mary Hayley Bell, about three children living on a farm in Sussex. The children – loosely based on my sister Juliet, my brother Jonathan and myself – discover a man in their barn. Thinking he’s Jesus, they decide to hide him and protect him from the adults because they don’t want the same thing to happen to him as before.

Debut director James Ross II shows promise in this gore fest, but the fear factor suffers from an overly complex plot

Sleep has been part of the horror genre repertoire since The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, and the anxieties around it are spiking as the “sleep economy” becomes a thing. This ambitiously structured gore fest about a woman suffering from waking nightmares comes with an all-black cast, but race isn’t a central preoccupation here. Instead, as night terrors burst the banks into reality, debut director James Ross II concentrates on maintaining an appropriately scrambled and claustrophobic experience – perhaps to the detriment of the fear factor.

On her 15th birthday, Riley (Jasmine Mathews) is paralysed in a waking/sleep state at her foster home, able to observe but powerless to intervene to stop a care worker going berserk. Since this massacre, Riley keeps a strict sleep protocol as an adult, making sure anyone under the same roof drops off before her, which apparently protects them from the malevolent presence invading her nights. Old foster home pal David (Stephen Barrington) accepts an invitation to the house where Riley’s dad murdered her mum, but gets the willies when a pallid demon begins manifesting in the small hours. It turns out that Riley’s boyfriend, Cam (RJ Brown), has been lax in letting her fall asleep before him – and now her resident succubus is on the loose again.

The latest in our series of writers highlighting their go-to comfort films is an ode to the teary 1994 adaptation of the classic novel

I have an ongoing argument with some friends about how I refuse to watch Interstellar again, despite considering it a beautiful and well-crafted film. It’s just so sad, I tell them, even with its hopeful ending. A desperate, choking lump forms in my chest as soon as I hear the futuristic swells of Hans Zimmer’s score and I have to remove myself before I am overtaken by emotion.

But at the same time, the movie I choose as my feelgood film is one that has reduced me to a sobbing, snotty mess time and time again, whether I’m watching it curled up with my cat on the couch, swaddled in blankets while sick in bed or jostling with my seatmate for the armrest on an airplane. And just like with the score from Interstellar, the moment I hear Thomas Newman’s wistful little oboe intro of the 1994 version of Little Women, I can feel my eyes well up with tears.

Beldina Odenyo alchemised the pain of exile, loss and racism into music as Heir of the Cursed before her death in 2021, as this attentive tribute explores

Instead of an artist in a booth, a lone amplifier plays the music of singer-songwriter Beldina Odenyo for a cluster of microphones to pick up during the posthumous recording of her debut album. It is a haunting encapsulation of the absence and presence at the heart of Louise Lockwood’s documentary, which makes a commendably thorough exploration of the mental illness that led to Odenyo killing herself in November 2021, and its roots: exile, loss and racism.

Performing under the moniker Heir of the Cursed, a translation of the Tetela name of assassinated Congolese leader Patrice Lumumba, Odenyo was on the verge of bigger recognition at the end of 2021 after a successful performance at Edinburgh’s Usher Hall. But hemmed in by successive Covid lockdowns, the 31-year-old is clearly unwell in a discomfiting backstage interview. Squirming, monosyllabic, she seems to be regressing to the non-verbal state of shock in which she arrived in Dumfriesshire from Kenya as a young child.