There are some films that shouldn't be mandatory viewing at 9am and Sara Colangelo's feature debut Little Accidents falls into that category. It's hard to appreciate the irony of seeing a film so concerned with the nature of trauma after enduring the morning rush on the tube. What really anchors Little Accidents firmly in the territory of mediocrity isn't its glacial pace, nor its strange disregarding of sub plots but its inability to elevate its mood to something more penetrative and melancholic.

Little Accidents' hinges around the intertwining 'web of secrets' (as the London Sundance program so liberally described it as) created by three characters in the wake of an agonising social disturbance: Amos Jenkins, a now crippled survivor (Boyd Holbrook), the wife of a coal mining manager Diane Doyle (Elizabeth Banks) and Owen (Jacob Lofland) the son of one of the victims.

Little Accidents, it turns out, constructs itself as powerful Cianfrancian narrative, which hopes to explore how trauma manifests itself within both individuals and communities -- its success reliant on how well Colangelo engineers each emotional strike. However, Colangelo handles the topic in such oafish grace, omitting any emotional complexities present after a devastating loss. Preferring a more arbitrary and elementary dissection of her characters.

Kendra (Chloe Sevigny) epitomises this: a working class mother of two in fiscal ruin, reeling from the death of her husband and exhausting whatever she has left on fancy electronics for her children as coping mechanism for her guilt, and to numb their grief. Kendra's situation is never capitalised on -- rarely existing within the film's emotional consciousness and perplexing Colangelo doesn't seemed to be too burdened by this. Kendra becomes a victim to a paradoxical narrative that manages to be both fainéant and ambitious. Whilst Little Accident's direction remains broadly creditable it soon becomes a shapeless venture into idle misery.

Whilst Colangelo's narrative suffered from visions of grandiloquence, the opposite is what makes Coogler's Fruitvale Station not just excellent filmmaking, but critical, salient filmmaking -- its readiness to challenge our perception of the civilised society makes it a timeless gut punch.

Fruitvale Station is orchestrated as an intimate reconstruction of the final few hours of Oscar Grant III's life, concerning itself with fleeting vignettes of stories, architected to further humanise Grant. As a natural consequence to approaching the narrative in an episodic fashion some moments resonate far better than others; when we see Grant attempting to save a dying dog it becomes an easy exercise is distancing yourself from this celestial figure. Surely no individual can be this pure, unblemished and Saintly? Nevertheless, any emotional miscalculation Coogler makes, when he lands a blow, and he does with devastating frequency, it'll reverberate through your skull, an agonising mix of: anger, mourning, shame tinged with fleeting moments of happiness. Fruitvale Station is as much a celebration of Grant's life as it is a condemnation of the society around us, touching on the human intimacies behind the media's gaze.

Thankfully, Marjane Satrapi's The Voices administered a well needed dose of fever dream madness into the cinema. When talking to Satrapi, she expressed her almost primitive interest in the script, explaining that her adoration boiled down to how "totally, totally fucked it was". Hence, 'The Voice' exists as grotesque genre amalgamation of melodrama, comedy and horror filtered through Satrapi's surreal and morbid eyes

The Voices follows Jerry (Ryan Reynolds), a guileless and endearing factory worker who falls for the office's British rose Fiona (Gemma Arterton). In a deranged 180 narrative turn, Jerry murders Fiona, by accident of course. Her death triggers brutal urges, furthered encouraged to act upon them by his talking cat Mr Whiskers.

Satrapi has spoken frequently about the importance of painting to her creative process and the world of The Voices is nothing shy of an emulsion nightmare; the intricate, candy exteriors exist as a symptomatic side effect to Jerry's unmedicated mental state. Satrapi's distances herself from special effects allows her to have full authorship over her nightmare exists. Yet, what keeps The Voices' hyper-sensual heart of darkness beating is Ryan Reynolds performance, especially his physicality -- a masterful equilibrium between purity and lunacy, even as he breaks his victims neck there's both a sorrowful thrill lying beneath his eyes, managing to be totally at odds yet hugely appropriate with the world around him.

The Voices could have been an exercise in peculiarity for reactionary sake, but Satrapi's film is a ghastly fun ride. Whilst thematically the film remains in disarray, each individual cog is polished to an astonishing glimmer, it's just pity they don't co-operate.

There's something enigmatic Lenny Abrahamson's Frank and its ability to be liked that mirrors the film's protagonist. For a film that has made home in the heart's of many critics there's a sort of arrogant spite about it that doesn't bode peacefully within the framework of a twee comedy -- it's conscious of its own quality, marching with smug pride to the beat of its own drum. Frank follows the journey of the young musician Jon (Domhnall Gleeson) and his brief rise to Pitchfork fame using Frank's band, Soronprfbs, as a vehicle. Frank seems devoid of an articulate or structured narrative; existing as a weird miscreation of two separate, but unequal narrative halves, forced to coexist, giving the film a sense of unprepared nervousness. How can the longer, bleaker second act follow the considerable enjoyment of the first half? It comes as a surprise that there's no charisma to be found within any of the film's characters, who all communicate with each other through malice and venom. It's a poisonous atmosphere to develop characters in and soon becomes almost unpalatable, especially approaching the film's denouement. As an audience we're expected not only to survive, but relish our time within their company -- by the end of the film you just want to get away from these people.

And that I did. Leaving the final film of the day in the capable hands of Mr Michael Clark.

Under the Electric Sky 3D is a documentary about the 2013 Electric Daisy Carnival in Las Vegas, a festival focused on EDM that also happens to be the largest festival in the United States. And, yeah, it's a film, I guess. It plays more like a feature-length MTV reality TV show and an advert for EDC more than anything else. It's a reality show because of the six human interest stories that the film is structured around, which range from insufferable (a group of bros who legitimately call themselves The Wolf Pack) to actually quite sweet (a man with scoliosis who's confined to a wheelchair) combined with its glossy formal vapidity; and it's an advert because everybody seems to toe the same party line about how amazing and alternative the festival is, and how you can just, like, be yourself and nobody judges you and DON'T DO DRUGS KIDS - but that's all to be expected. Indeed, it's easy to be cynical about Under the Electric Sky, but it should tick all the boxes for its intended audience of people who like EDM are likely to attend EDC: you get a glimpse of all the relevant artists doing their thing (Teisto, Calvin Harris and a whole cast of musicians I have no fucking clue about) some energetic footage of the huge crowd losing their shit, and a great deal about what makes EDC so fucking fantastic. It's clearly not for me, and that's fine; it's from Dan Cutforth and Jane Lipsitz who brought us Katy Perry: Part of Me (2012) and it's in the same ballpark of films made exclusively for fans. So make of that what you will.