OBSESSION horror movie review

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Feels like a collection of strong ideas searching for a stronger story

Written and directed by Alabama native and YouTuber Curry Barker, Obsession has become one of the surprise success stories of the year. Produced on a modest budget and propelled by enthusiastic word-of-mouth, the film has resonated with audiences looking for something original in a marketplace increasingly dominated by sequels and established franchises. And there is much in his filmmaking to admire here, but filmmaking and storytelling are not the same discipline. For all of its visual confidence, Obsession often feels like a collection of strong ideas searching for a stronger story. The film offers memorable moments, unsettling imagery, and a clever variation on the classic Monkey’s Paw concept, yet those moments frequently feel as though they were designed to punctuate a more fully developed screenplay rather than serve as the foundation for one.

About: After breaking the mysterious “One Wish Willow” to win his crush’s heart, a hopeless romantic gets exactly what he asked for. However, he soon discovers that some desires come at a dark and sinister price.

Barker demonstrates a keen eye for composition, editing, and atmosphere. He understands how to create tension how to stage a reveal, how to keep an audience engaged, and of the upmost importance, he understands how to sustain tension and keep an audience engaged. Concerning his competence in the technical elements, there is little doubt he has a firm grasp; however, there is more to cinematic storytelling than the technical dimension. A person can possess extraordinary visual instincts while still struggling with the fundamentals of dramatic construction–and it’s that tension that sits at the heart of Obsession.

Demonstrably, he does not yet fully understand screenwriting fundamentals. For example, this movie is nearly devoid of moments of emotional reset–those moments wherein we can breathe. Like wine usually shouldn’t be consumed immediately after removing the cork, movies too need moments of breathing, emotional reset in order to cleanse the palate and mitigate the possibilities of exhausting the audience.

Coming down hard on his lack of screenwriting talent may sound harsher than intended, but it’s yet another example of how those that know how to build a following on YouTube or other social media app do not necessarily know how to tell a compelling story. Knowledge of technical elements? Yes. Knowledge of screenwriting mechanics and fundamentals? Not so much–usually anyway.

But there are many elements that are admirable in Barker’s movie. The film contains numerous effective scenes, memorable images, and genuinely unsettling moments. Barker clearly knows how to build individual sequences that work. The problem is that those sequences often feel as though they were designed to punctuate a stronger screenplay that never materialized around them. The result is a movie that frequently feels less like a cohesive narrative and more like a collection of good ideas forced together into a feature-length runtime.

At its core, Obsession functions as a contemporary variation of W. W. Jacobs’ classic Monkey’s Paw premise. Desire collides with consequence. Wishes become curses. Human longing opens the door to forces beyond one’s control. It is fertile dramatic territory and one that has generated countless effective horror stories over the years.

What distinguishes the best versions of that premise, however, is not the supernatural mechanism itself. It is the moral and emotional framework surrounding it. The Monkey’s Paw is ultimately about temptation. Pet Sematary is about grief. Needful Things is about greed. Even many episodes of The Twilight Zone work because they place ordinary people in extraordinary situations that reveal something meaningful about human nature.

Obsession never quite discovers its equivalent thematic center.

The film gestures toward ideas involving desire, fixation, and unhealthy attachment, but these concepts remain largely underdeveloped. The horror functions effectively on a mechanical level, yet rarely acquires the emotional or ethical weight necessary to elevate it beyond its premise. The same problem extends to the characters.

While the film introduces individuals who serve the narrative adequately, few emerge as fully realized people. Their decisions often feel driven more by the needs of the plot than by clearly established psychology. As a result, the audience understands what is happening without necessarily becoming invested in whom it is happening to. That lack of emotional grounding becomes increasingly noticeable as the story escalates.

And yet, despite these shortcomings, I find it difficult to dismiss Obsession. Many films fail because their creators lack vision. Barker’s film suffers from the opposite problem. The vision is clearly present. The talent is clearly present. The technical proficiency is clearly present. What remains underdeveloped is the narrative architecture needed to support those strengths. That distinction matters. A filmmaker who struggles with shot composition or pacing may never overcome those limitations. A filmmaker who already possesses those skills but needs to improve as a writer represents a far more intriguing proposition.

Which is why Obsession ultimately succeeds less as a finished work than as evidence of potential. The film may not offer compelling characters, a fully realized dramatic structure, or a particularly profound exploration of its themes. What it does offer is a glimpse of a filmmaker who understands cinema as a visual medium and appears capable of creating memorable moments.

The challenge now is learning how to connect those moments into a story worthy of them.

Ryan is the morning host on WLRH Public Radio in Huntsville, AL and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can enjoy the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry

MORTAL KOMBAT II (2026) movie review

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A fun, energetic way to kick off the summer movie season.

Mortal Kombat II understands something that many modern blockbuster adaptations still struggle to grasp: audiences do not necessarily want filmmakers to reinvent beloved source material—they want filmmakers to respect it while translating it effectively into cinematic language. And surprisingly enough, this sequel largely succeeds. It is not attempting profound philosophical commentary or emotional devastation. Nor should it. The film knows exactly what it is, embraces its absurdity with confidence, and delivers a thoughtful sequel that also functions as one of the more effective big-screen adaptations of a video game in recent memory.

Mortal Kombat II is about how Johnny Cage joins other fighters in the ultimate, no-holds-barred battle to defeat the dark rule of Shao Kahn, a powerful tyrant who threatens the very existence of the Earthrealm and its defenders.

At the end of the day, Mortal Kombat II is a popcorn movie—an unapologetically violent, nostalgic crowd-pleaser designed first and foremost to entertain. The characters remain recognizable to longtime fans while also possessing enough cinematic depth to sustain an actual narrative. That balancing act matters. Too often, video game movies reduce their characters to costumes and catchphrases. Here, however, the fighters feel like people rather than playable avatars waiting for controller input.

As someone who always gravitated toward Kitana in the games, it was particularly satisfying to see her positioned as an emotional and narrative centerpiece. She is not simply present for fan service or aesthetic appeal; she has agency, motivation, and an arc that helps drive the story forward. In fact, one of the film’s greatest strengths is that no character feels disposable. Nobody feels like an NPC wandering through the background waiting to deliver exposition before disappearing. Each fighter is given at least some measure of journey or development.

Visually, the movie also strikes an effective balance between homage and expansion. Many of the settings evoke the iconic backgrounds from the games—the gothic arenas, shadowy temples, and otherworldly battlegrounds longtime fans will immediately recognize. But the film never feels trapped within them. Instead, those environments are punctuated throughout a larger cinematic world that feels appropriately expansive.

Narratively, the story is a fairly classical variation of good versus evil, but there is enough thematic grounding to give the conflict weight. Beneath the martial arts spectacle and supernatural mythology lies a struggle between freedom and authoritarian control—between individuality and the oppressive force of conformity. It is not especially subtle, but subtlety is not really the point here.

The point is fun. And on that level, the movie absolutely works.

The fight choreography is energetic, the pacing rarely drags, and yes—the fatalities are brutal. But importantly, the violence never tips into unpleasantness. The film retains enough of its heightened video-game aesthetic that the gore feels stylized rather than exploitative. There is restraint within the excess. The movie understands the difference between brutality and ugliness.

Most importantly, Mortal Kombat II remembers that adaptation does not require embarrassment. It never apologizes for being based on a video game. Instead, it embraces the mythology, the characters, the iconography, and even the inherent silliness of the premise with complete sincerity. That sincerity goes a long way.

This is a fun, energetic way to kick off the summer movie season, and longtime fans—particularly those who grew up with the original games—will likely leave the theater with a smile on their face. And sometimes, that is enough.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry

THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA 2 movie review

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A sequel about decline that unintentionally embodies it

The Devil Wears Prada 2 arrives with an intriguing premise: the decline of traditional print media and the cultural erosion that follows in its wake. On paper, that is fertile dramatic territory—especially for a franchise rooted in the world of fashion magazines, where prestige once carried weight and authority. But while the film gestures toward thoughtful commentary on the changing media landscape, its ambition collapses under the weight of its own excess. The sequel’s attempt to explore the decline of traditional print journalism—and the cultural loss that represents—is buried beneath rushed subplots and thin character work. The sharp bite that defined the original is gone, replaced by interactions that feel oddly dull and listless.

About the movie: Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway) returns to Runway as Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) navigates a new media landscape and Runway‘s position within it. They reconnect with another former assistant, Emily (Emily Blunt), who is now the head of a luxury brand that possesses funding which could ensure Runway‘s survival.

The irony is difficult to ignore: a movie about the fading relevance of print media ends up feeling like a diminished version of its former self. What made the original The Devil Wears Prada so compelling was not merely its fashion or its humor, but its brazen confidence. The characters were bold, unapologetic, and sharply drawn. They possessed edge—sometimes cruelty, sometimes wit—but always energy.

That energy is conspicuously absent here. The sequel lacks the chutzpah that defined the original. The characters feel like muted versions of their former selves—recognizable, but drained of vitality.

Even Miranda Priestly, once a towering figure of authority and intimidation, feels diminished. She is simply not the same Miranda. Nor is she a believable evolution of that character in an era defined by the decline of print media and the increasing irrelevance of traditional fashion magazines. Instead, she feels like a sanitized, diluted interpretation—a kind of bargain-bin version of the woman who once commanded every room she entered.

Andy, meanwhile, remains recognizable as her former self, but a shallower one—less conflicted, less driven, less interesting. Emily comes closest to recapturing her original spark, yet even she feels like a low-resolution facsimile. Nigel is perhaps the most faithful to his earlier incarnation, but he is given remarkably little to do, functioning more as a reminder of the past than as an active participant in the present.

One of the film’s most significant problems is not a lack of ideas—it is an overabundance of them. The movie attempts to comment on a wide array of contemporary issues, each of which could have sustained a compelling narrative on its own. Among them:

  • The exploitation of labor in global fashion supply chains
  • The decline of print journalism and professional writing
  • Body positivity and changing beauty standards
  • Workplace political correctness
  • The tension between art and commerce
  • The fallibility of institutions and authority figures
  • Agism

These are all worthwhile themes. But instead of selecting one or two central ideas and developing them with clarity, the film introduces them in rapid succession, only to abandon them before they gain dramatic traction. The result is a story that feels scattered and unfocused.

There is a fundamental principle of storytelling that seems to have been forgotten here:
When your story is about everything, it is ultimately about nothing.

Adding to the problem is a roster of side characters who function less as people and more as props. They appear when needed, deliver exposition, and disappear without leaving any meaningful impression. They exist to move the plot forward rather than to inhabit it.

Even the film’s musical landscape reflects this sense of creative fatigue.

The soundtrack is largely forgettable—pleasant enough in the moment, but lacking the memorable punch that defined the original film’s sonic identity. One exception, of course, is Vogue, which remains as exhilarating as ever. Its inclusion feels less like nostalgia and more like a reminder of what bold artistic expression once sounded like.

By contrast, the contributions from Lady Gaga feel surprisingly inert—polished, competent, but oddly impersonal. The songs lack the distinctive flair and theatricality audiences have come to expect from an artist of her caliber. They register less as creative statements and more as algorithmic approximations of style.

From beginning to end, The Devil Wears Prada 2 feels like a discount version of its predecessor—an imitation rather than a continuation. It tries hard to recapture the magic of the original, but its creative DNA seems shaped by the streaming era: content designed for breadth rather than depth, immediacy rather than longevity. The film moves quickly, introduces ideas rapidly, and resolves conflicts hastily—mirroring the rhythms of modern digital consumption.

In that sense, the movie unintentionally becomes a commentary on the very cultural shifts it seeks to critique.

It is a product of the moment.

And like much of contemporary media, it feels engineered for engagement rather than crafted for impact. The Devil Wears Prada 2 reminds us that sequels are not sustained by familiarity alone. They require conviction, clarity of purpose, and characters who evolve in meaningful ways. This film has ideas—many of them compelling—but acks the narrative discipline necessary to bring those ideas to life. What remains is a glossy, well-dressed production that gestures toward relevance without ever achieving it.

The original film had bite—had fire.
This one barely leaves a mark.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry

MICHAEL (2026) biopic review

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Electrifying in look, disjointed in prose.

Michael is, at its best, a spectacle. At its worst, it is a sequence of moments searching for a story to connect them. The film dazzles with electrifying musical numbers and a transformative performance from Jaafar Jackson, recreating the energy and precision that made Michael Jackson a global icon. Yet beneath the surface of that spectacle lies a surprisingly thin dramatic foundation. Rather than unfolding as a cohesive narrative, the movie plays more like a curated timeline—an impressive collection of scenes and set pieces that rarely build upon one another. The result is a biopic that captures the look and sound of greatness, but seldom pauses long enough to explore the human motivations and emotional currents that made that greatness possible.

Michael is the story of the first half of the King of Pop’s life–from his extraordinary early days in the Jackson 5 to the visionary artist whose creative ambition fuels a relentless pursuit to become the biggest entertainer in the world.

Without a doubt, Jaafar Jackson’s performance as his uncle, Michael Jackson, is nothing short of electrifying. He captures the look, the voice, the posture, and—most impressively—the kinetic energy of the King of Pop with uncanny precision. There are stretches in this film where the illusion is so convincing that you genuinely forget you are watching an actor. You feel, instead, as though Michael himself has stepped back onto the stage.

And the film knows it.

The concert and music-video sequences are spectacular—lavish in scale, meticulously choreographed, and technically impressive. From the lighting design to the sound mixing to the camera movement, these moments recreate the experience of a Michael Jackson performance with remarkable fidelity. If you never had the opportunity to see him live, this movie brings you about as close as cinema can.

But spectacle alone cannot sustain a narrative. Despite its visual electricity, Michael plays less like a cohesive drama and more like a curated highlight reel. Scene after scene unfolds with little connective tissue, rarely building upon what came before. The only true continuity in the film is Michael himself—his presence serving as the thread holding together a collection of otherwise disconnected sequences.

As a result, character development is surprisingly thin—even for the central figure. Yes, we hear Michael express his desire to be the best. We see his ambition. We witness his relentless pursuit of perfection. But we rarely feel the emotional engine driving those impulses. Motivation is stated rather than dramatized. The film tells us who Michael is, but seldom allows us to experience how he became that person.

That limitation extends to the supporting characters as well.

Take Joseph Jackson. The film hints at his greed and severity, but it stops short of exploring the deeper complexity of his motivations. There is an important story there—one about a father determined to ensure his children would not spend their lives working in a steel mill in Gary, Indiana. His methods were often harsh, even repulsive, but his ambition was rooted in a desire for something better. That tension, which could have provided dramatic depth, remains largely unexplored.

Many of the characters in this film—including the leads—feel one-dimensional, defined more by their roles in Michael’s life than by their own inner lives. To its credit, the film does succeed in weaving a thematic motif that carries from beginning to end: the enduring influence of Peter Pan. We learn why the story of the boy who never grew up resonated so deeply with Michael from childhood onward, and that thread provides one of the few elements of emotional continuity in the narrative. We also meet his famous chimpanzee, Bubbles—an inclusion that underscores the film’s fascination with the mythology surrounding the man.

Narratively, the movie traces Michael’s journey from his early days in Gary to his 1988 concert in London. But the film feels less like an exploration of his life and more like a survey of it—an overview rather than an examination.

One might argue that such breadth is necessary to capture what amounts to the first half of an extraordinary life within a two-hour runtime. Yet history suggests otherwise. Consider What’s Love Got to Do with It, anchored by a career-defining performance from Angela Bassett as Tina Turner. That film covers decades of triumph and trauma while still delivering character development, narrative momentum, and emotional clarity. It demonstrates that a larger-than-life story can be both expansive and dramatically coherent.

Perhaps the difference lies not in structure, but in subject.

Unlike Turner’s story, Michael Jackson’s legacy remains complicated—shaped not only by unprecedented artistic achievement but also by controversy, scandal, and public scrutiny. For some viewers, that context may make it difficult to fully embrace a film that focuses primarily on the years before his fall from favor. And with the movie ending on a clear “to be continued” note, it seems inevitable that the darker chapters of his life will be addressed in a future installment.

Still, for all its narrative shortcomings, Michael delivers where it matters most to fans: the music. The recreation of the Thriller sequence is a particular highlight—an exhilarating reminder of why Michael Jackson became a global phenomenon. The film’s reverence for his artistry is unmistakable, even if its storytelling discipline is not. I was disappointed, however, that the great Vincent Price receives little more than a passing acknowledgment, though his brief appearance via House of Wax offers a welcome nod to cinema history.

In the end, Michael succeeds as an experience more than as a narrative.

Go for the concert.
Go for the spectacle.
Go to witness an astonishing performance.

But do not expect to leave with a deeper understanding of the man behind the music.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry

PROJECT HAIL MARY motion picture review

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A triumphant return to classical Hollywood storytelling.

There is something refreshingly old-fashioned about Project Hail Mary. Not old in the sense of dated, but old in the sense of dependable—like a well-built machine designed to do exactly what it promises. It embraces the kind of classical Hollywood storytelling that has quietly fallen out of favor in an era increasingly defined by irony, cynicism, and ideological sorting. This is a film that wants to entertain first, inspire second, and lecture not at all. And in today’s cinematic climate, that alone feels almost radical.

Based on the Andy Weir novel, science teacher Dr. Ryland Grace (Ryan Gosling) wakes up on a spaceship with no recollection of who he is or how he got there. As his memory slowly returns, he soon discovers he must solve the riddle behind a mysterious substance that’s causing the sun to die out. As details of the mission unravel, he calls on his scientific training and sheer ingenuity–but he may not have to do it alone.

Project Hail Mary functions simultaneously as a robust science-fiction adventure and a genuinely compelling motion picture about responsibility, sacrifice, and cooperation. It understands that spectacle is most meaningful when tethered to character, and that the audience’s emotional investment—not the complexity of the plot—is what ultimately determines whether a story lands.

And while I am quite high on this film, it isn’t without its shortcomings–particularly when it comes to plotting and pacing. But, in its defense, where plot mechanics falter, the emotive and performative dimensions cary the load. To be sure, the screenplay is not airtight. There are moments where the finer points of the science become a little vague, and occasional plot turns feel more convenient than convincing. The narrative relies on a few leaps of logic that may cause scientifically minded viewers to raise an eyebrow. And structurally, the pacing occasionally sags—particularly in the flashback sequences, which linger longer than necessary and could easily have been trimmed by twenty minutes without sacrificing clarity.

But here is the crucial distinction:

The film earns its emotional beats. And when a movie earns those beats, audiences are willing to forgive a surprising number of narrative imperfections.

At the center of Project Hail Mary lies one of the most unexpectedly affecting friendships in recent science fiction: the bond between Dr. Ryland Grace and the alien known as Rocky. What begins as a pragmatic partnership evolves into something deeper—something recognizably human, despite the interspecies divide. Their relationship is built not on ideology, identity, or tribal affiliation, but on mutual trust and shared purpose. That simplicity is precisely what gives it power. Their friendship resonates because it taps into a fundamental truth about storytelling. Ultimately, it underscores that meaningful connection is more compelling than conflict.

As I survey contemporary movies, in a cinematic landscape that often frames difference as division, Project Hail Mary instead frames difference as collaboration. It suggests that survival, both literal and cultural, depends less on asserting dominance and more on extending cooperation. And that message lands without a trace of sanctimony.

Perhaps the film’s most striking quality is its tone.

At a time when many contemporary movies lean into cynicism—often dividing characters into moral camps or ideological tribes—Project Hail Mary takes a different path. It offers a story built on cooperation, empathy, and shared responsibility. It reminds us that our actions ripple outward. That survival is collective. That progress requires partnership. And that, sometimes the most heroic act is simply choosing to help someone else. In an industry increasingly drawn to provocation and polarization, this film dares to be earnest. And that sincerity is its greatest strength.

Ryan Gosling’s Dr. Grace embodies one of Hollywood’s most enduring archetypes: the reluctant hero. He is not fearless. He is not morally pristine. He is not even particularly eager to save the world. He’s simply a man confronted with responsibility—and forced to rise to meet it. That arc feels deeply relatable because it reflects the way real courage often works. Heroism is rarely the absence of fear; it is the decision to act despite it. The film understands this intuitively, allowing Grace’s transformation to unfold gradually rather than through grand speeches or sudden epiphanies. In doing so, it restores dignity to the idea of ordinary people doing extraordinary things.

On a purely technical level, Project Hail Mary is an impressive achievement. The visual effects are sophisticated without becoming overwhelming. The production design conveys scale without sacrificing intimacy. The sound design—particularly in the depiction of Rocky’s communication—demonstrates a level of creativity that enhances rather than distracts from the narrative. Most importantly, the film uses technology in service of storytelling rather than spectacle for its own sake. That discipline is increasingly rare.

For my fellow Star Trek fans out there, this film reminded me of one of the best episodes of The Next Generation, and that is the Darmok episode where in we get the overcoming of language barriers to form collaboration between Captain Picard and an alien creature (a Tamarian) that only communicates in metaphor. It’s a powerful episode (watch it). And of course we get the memorable quote (and one for which I have a t-shirt) “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra.” Perhaps we could say, for this movie, “Darmok and Grace at Tau Ceti.”

Project Hail Mary may stumble occasionally in its plotting and pacing, but its emotional core remains remarkably strong. It is a film that trusts audiences to care about characters, to invest in relationships, and to believe—however briefly—that cooperation is still possible. It is not a perfect movie; but it is a deeply satisfying one.

And in a world of cynical storytelling, that feels like a small miracle–a Hail Mary.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry