THE END OF OAK STREET dino-horror movie review

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Dinosaurs are scary again.

The End of Oak Street is a solid piece of summertime entertainment—a fun, action-packed journey through the hidden dangers of suburbia that plays like a throwback to a 1960s B-movie. Most importantly, it makes dinosaurs scary again.

About: A mysterious cosmic event rips Oak Street from suburbia and transports a neighborhood to someplace unknown. The Platt family soon discovers that their very survival depends on sticking together as they navigate their now unrecognizable surroundings.

Shot on 35mm film, the picture has a warm, soft texture that somehow makes the terror feel even more immediate. Its old-school look and brisk pacing give the movie a tactile personality often missing from contemporary creature features. The external action plot works well, and the film understands the primal appeal of watching prehistoric predators invade an ordinary neighborhood.

In that respect, The End of Oak Street feels like the manifestation of a childhood fear many of us carried after seeing Jurassic Park. I certainly wondered what would happen if dinosaurs suddenly appeared in my own neighborhood after watching that film in theaters in 1993. Mitchell taps into that anxiety effectively, transforming familiar suburban streets and houses into places of danger.

The film also struggles to settle on a consistent tone. Mitchell seems caught between making a dinosaur horror movie and a dark comedy, and the picture repeatedly oscillates between the two without fully committing to either. Both approaches could have worked, but the uncertainty occasionally makes it difficult to determine how certain scenes are meant to land. The tonal inconsistency never overwhelms the film’s entertainment value, though it remains noticeable throughout.

Where the film falls short is in its unwillingness to fully explore the more reflective themes it introduces. The ideas are there, but they remain largely beneath the surface. The film introduces the question of God’s existence without meaningfully exploring it. One character explicitly rejects belief, another appears similarly skeptical, one is Catholic, and two others at least express curiosity. That range of perspectives could have supported a genuinely compelling thematic thread. Instead, the subject feels shoehorned into the screenplay in a way that subtly privileges a faithless worldview—particularly because the two characters coded as the most intelligent are also the least believing. Given that several others believe or remain open to belief, the film had an opportunity for balance and nuance that it ultimately leaves unexplored.

Mitchell also does not give the characters enough to do beyond reacting to the immediate crisis. The cast performs capably with the material provided, but the performative dimension is ultimately just that: capable. The characters are sufficiently compelling to carry the action, though few develop enough to linger afterward. But Anne Hathaway being chased by and fighting off dinosaurs…yes please! She did great.

The dinosaurs generally look good, and the visual effects are more convincing than the computer-generated creatures in many recent movies. They do not approach the groundbreaking naturalism of Jurassic Park, but they are considerably stronger than much of the CGI produced in its wake.

I could have done without the feathers. While there are scientific theories supporting feathered dinosaurs—and we cannot know with absolute certainty how every species appeared—the designs are initially distracting. Filmmakers should often strive for naturalism rather than strict realism. A creature must first look as though it belongs within the visual world of the movie, regardless of whether every detail reflects the latest scientific interpretation.

As a recent creature-feature comparison, The End of Oak Street shares some DNA with Crawl, although Crawl remains the stronger and more dramatically developed film. Still, Mitchell’s movie has heart, momentum, and enough old-fashioned monster-movie energy to make it an enjoyable capstone to the summer season.

This is also one to see on the big screen rather than postponing until streaming. The story may be simple, but its scale, sound, and creature action benefit considerably from a theatrical presentation. The End of Oak Street may not fully capitalize on all its ideas, but it delivers an entertaining ride—and reminds us that sometimes the most frightening monsters are the ones waiting just beyond the front lawn.

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

SPIDER-MAN: BRAND NEW DAY movie review

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A Compelling Hero in Search of a Consistent, Equally Compelling Villain

Spider-Man: Brand New Day may be the darkest live-action Spider-Man film since The Amazing Spider-Man 2. More significantly, it may be the most human. Peter Parker no longer emerges from every battle protected by the reassuring elasticity of comic-book storytelling. He bleeds, bruises, and brushes against death with an immediacy rarely felt in earlier installments. The physical injuries linger, as do the psychological ones.

That vulnerability gives Tom Holland some of the strongest material he has received as Peter Parker. It may, in fact, be his finest performance in the role. Holland appears older, wearier, and more fully aware of the cost attached to his extraordinary life. This is not merely a hero confronting another threat; it is a young man discovering that courage does not make him invulnerable.

The entire ensemble performs well. From beginning to end, the performative dimension is considerably stronger than the screenplay supporting it. Unfortunately, the actors are too often asked to sustain scenes that linger without sufficiently advancing character, conflict, or consequence. They give the film emotional credibility, but the writing rarely provides enough dramatic momentum to match their efforts.

Listen to the ReelTalk episode by clicking HERE. You can also find it on Apple, Spotify, and other pod-catchers.

The central problem is the absence of a sustained character of opposition. Brand New Day contains adversaries and dangerous circumstances, but it never establishes a traditional central villain capable of defining the conflict and forcing Peter through a complete heroic journey. What initially appears to be the enemy does not remain the enemy. Simply stated, this is a superhero movie with a hero but no true villain.

Breaking with convention is not inherently more intelligent, sophisticated, or artful than following it. Conventions often endure because they perform essential dramatic functions. A formidable antagonist does more than provide someone for the hero to defeat. The antagonist applies pressure, clarifies the stakes, exposes the hero’s weaknesses, and forces decisions that transform the character. Internal conflict can certainly drive a story, but cinema must still dramatize that struggle through meaningful external opposition.

Without that sustained force, Peter’s journey lacks a clear dramatic destination. The movie contains considerable emotional weight but surprisingly little propulsion.

This contributes to the film’s pacing problems. Although Brand New Day is shorter than several entries in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, it frequently feels longer. Runtime and pacing are not synonymous. A lengthy film can pass quickly when every scene builds naturally upon the one preceding it; a shorter film can drag when its scenes repeat emotional information or fail to change the dramatic equation. Too much of Brand New Day remains at the same level of solemn intensity.

Darkness itself is not the problem. Tim Burton’s Batman and Batman Returns demonstrated that comic-book films could be brooding, psychologically complicated, and visually macabre while still providing considerable entertainment. Brand New Day, by contrast, delivers a heavy helping of melodrama without enough tonal contrast, exhilaration, or playfulness. Its seriousness is often admirable, but seriousness alone does not create depth.

There is nevertheless much to appreciate. The decision to emphasize Peter’s physical and emotional fragility restores something essential to the character. Spider-Man has always endured because his powers do not liberate him from ordinary human suffering. He still experiences fear, exhaustion, disappointment, and loss. His victories cost him something, and Holland communicates that burden with remarkable conviction.

Spider-Man: Brand New Day ultimately works better as a Peter Parker character study than as satisfying superhero entertainment. Its interest in consequence is thoughtful, its performances are strong, and its humanity is genuine. Yet the absence of a clearly defined villain and the resulting lack of dramatic momentum leave the film feeling incomplete.

Tom Holland gives the movie a compelling hero. The screenplay simply forgets that even the most human hero still needs something—or someone—substantial to oppose him. However, it’s an enjoyable movie that sticks to one universe–and that’s a relief.

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

PINOCCHIO UNSTRUNG horror movie review

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Gloriously unhinged.

There is a profound difference between watching visual effects and watching craftsmanship, and the latest twisted fairy tale from the filmmakers behind Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey may not possess the screenplay necessary to become a horror classic, but it does possess something increasingly rare in contemporary filmmaking: artistry you can literally see with your own eyes. Every puppet, animatronic, prosthetic, and practical effect reminds audiences that movie magic isn’t created by algorithms or render farms. It’s created by artists with paintbrushes, carving tools, strings, latex, wood, and imagination.

About: A wooden doll named Pinocchio embarks on a violent crusade to carve itself into a real boy, one piece at a time.

Within minutes of the opening credits, it becomes obvious this is a film made by people who genuinely love the craft of filmmaking. The opening title sequence immediately establishes that philosophy, using light, shadow, carved wood, and puppetry before transitioning into a remarkable prologue staged with two-dimensional articulated wooden figures reminiscent of Lotte Reiniger’s The Adventures of Prince Achmed. It’s an inspired artistic decision that immediately distinguishes the film from countless independent horror productions that simply chase gore.

And yes…there’s plenty of gore.

When the violence embraces the exaggerated, cartoonish sensibilities of 1980s splatter films, it’s gleefully entertaining. Occasionally, however, the filmmakers push the violence toward a level of realism that becomes less fun than uncomfortable. Those moments feel at odds with the otherwise playful tone established throughout the picture.

The screenplay itself is considerably less inspired. Character development is minimal, dialogue rarely rises above functional, and the narrative exists primarily as a framework upon which to hang increasingly inventive practical effects. Yet unlike Pooh: Blood and Honey, Pinocchio Unstrung rarely feels cynical or mean-spirited. It delights in twisting familiar fairy tale iconography without ever suggesting contempt for the source material.

Robert Englund’s vocal performance as the Cricket is a delightful bonus for horror fans, and the filmmakers sprinkle affectionate nods to A Nightmare on Elm Street throughout the production. They’re playful rather than distracting, another reminder that this is a movie made by lifelong horror enthusiasts.

But the real stars are the effects artists.

Not since the golden age of Jim Henson productions like The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth has puppetry been employed with such confidence in a genre film. Likewise, the animatronic work recalls an era when creatures occupied physical space alongside actors rather than existing exclusively inside computers. Watching these creations come alive inevitably brings Jurassic Park to mind—not because the scale is comparable, but because the same tangible sense of craftsmanship is present.

That appreciation only deepens during the film’s unusually generous post-credit sequence, which abandons the traditional Marvel-style tease in favor of something far more rewarding: an extended behind-the-scenes look at how the effects were achieved. It plays less like a sequel setup than a Blu-ray special feature celebrating the dozens of artists responsible for bringing this bizarre vision to life. Ironically, those few minutes may be the movie’s greatest triumph.

While Pinocchio Unstrung never develops into a compelling dramatic experience, it succeeds magnificently as a celebration of practical filmmaking. In an era increasingly dominated by digital imagery, this film proudly wears the fingerprints of its creators. You can feel the hands of the artists in every frame. And for that alone, it’s worth seeing.

Listen to the full conversation with fellow critic Sean Boelman HERE. You can also find it on Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

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

THE ODYSSEY film review

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Magnificent moments in search of an epic story.

When audiences leave The Odyssey, they’ll likely be talking about the Trojan Horse, the Cyclops, the sea monsters, and the breathtaking images Christopher Nolan has conjured for the largest screens imaginable. And rightly so. Few filmmakers working today possess Nolan’s ability to stage spectacle on such an astonishing scale. Yet for all its technical brilliance and jaw-dropping visual achievement, The Odyssey left me admiring its individual moments and technical achievement far more than the story connecting them.

About the film: Odysseus (Matt Damon) embarks on a dangerous voyage back to Ithaca following the Trojan War, encountering treacherous creatures like the Cyclops Polyphemus, Sirens, and the gates of Hades.

While few filmmakers have demonstrated the talent and skill to craft motion pictures on the scale and scope of Nolan’s, many have been able to create motion picture offerings truly deserving of the big screen treatment. But, cinema has become so enamored with spectacle that audiences increasingly mistake scale for storytelling. The two are not synonymous. A breathtaking image may inspire awe, but without dramatic architecture it struggles to resonate beyond the moment it appears on screen.

This is the central irony of Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey. Adapting the foundational epic of Western storytelling—a tale whose dramatic framework has influenced literature and cinema for nearly three millennia—Nolan delivers some of the most astonishing imagery ever projected onto a movie screen while simultaneously diminishing the very narrative mechanics that made Homer’s poem endure.

Nolan has long challenged conventional storytelling, but innovation alone neither elevates nor diminishes a work of art. The irony here is especially striking because The Odyssey originates from the civilization that gave us many of the dramatic principles still underpinning Western storytelling. Homer didn’t simply tell an adventure; he created the definitive mythic journey—a narrative whose emotional power comes from watching Odysseus endure one impossible trial after another as he struggles home.

Nolan’s adaptation rarely allows that journey to accumulate. Instead, the film drifts between spectacular episodes much as Odysseus himself drifts across the sea. Each sequence is magnificent in isolation, but the nonlinear structure continually interrupts the dramatic momentum needed for the voyage to feel emotionally cumulative.

For viewers already familiar with Homer’s epic, reconstructing the chronology isn’t especially difficult. For those encountering The Odyssey for the first time, however, the film provides surprisingly little connective tissue or narrative context. Rather than deepening the myth, the fragmented structure often obscures it. As odd as it may sound, the 1990s Wishbone adaptation arguably communicates the story’s emotional architecture more effectively.

Some have dismissed my criticism by suggesting I simply dislike nonlinear storytelling. The opposite is true. Some of my favorite films—including Mulholland Drive, Rashomon, Arrival, Pulp Fiction, Memento, and The Godfather Part II—all abandon linear chronology. What unites those films is that their structures reveal character, reinforce theme, or place the audience inside a unique perspective that chronological storytelling could not achieve. Their nonlinear construction enriches the drama.

Here, Nolan primarily uses a nonlinear structure to reorganize the plot.

That distinction matters, because the result is a film whose storytelling often feels less powerful than its individual scenes. Fortunately, those scenes are truly extraordinary.

One observation from fellow critic Sean Boelman has lingered with me since seeing the film. Sean—who admired The Odyssey far more than I did—suggested that Nolan’s nonlinear structure feels reminiscent of oral storytelling. The more I’ve reflected on that idea, the more I think he’s right. There is a quality to the film that resembles hearing an ancient bard recount Odysseus’ adventures, jumping from one episode to another as memory and emphasis dictate rather than strict chronology.

Where we ultimately diverge is whether that approach serves the medium of cinema. Oral storytelling and visual storytelling are not identical languages. What works around a fire or in the halls of ancient Greece does not necessarily produce the strongest dramatic experience on a movie screen. Cinema possesses tools that oral tradition never could: editing, visual composition, performance, and dramatic pacing that build cumulative emotional momentum. By adopting the rhythms of oral storytelling, Nolan creates an undeniably fascinating interpretation of Homer’s epic, but one that, for me, sacrifices too much of the dramatic architecture that gives the journey its emotional force.

This is what makes The Odyssey such a fascinating film to evaluate. Rarely have I encountered a movie in which spectacle and dramatic architecture diverge so dramatically. As a visual achievement, Nolan’s film ranks among the most impressive epics of the modern era. As a piece of dramatic storytelling, I found it considerably less satisfying.

The Trojan Horse sequence is among the most awe-inspiring moments Nolan has ever filmed. Every set, every landscape, every battle possesses a mythological grandeur rarely seen in modern filmmaking. Watching The Odyssey, I found myself imagining what audiences must have experienced seeing Metropolis or The Ten Commandments for the first time. Those films redefined cinematic scale for their generations. Nolan’s achievement feels similarly monumental.

Which is why The Odyssey absolutely deserves to be seen on the biggest screen available. Whether that’s 70mm IMAX or another premium format matters far less than simply experiencing its overwhelming visual and sonic presentation in a theater. A larger screen won’t solve the screenplay’s structural shortcomings, but it will allow viewers to fully appreciate one of the most ambitious technical achievements of recent years.

Matt Damon anchors the film with quiet confidence, delivering perhaps the strongest performance of the ensemble. He fully inhabits Odysseus, carrying both the physical burden of the journey and the emotional weariness of a man desperate to return home. The remainder of the cast performs capably without leaving much of a lasting impression. Tom Holland never entirely escapes echoes of Peter Parker, Anne Hathaway provides the elegance and composure we’ve come to expect, and Robert Pattinson is surprisingly underutilized. There are no poor performances—only few that linger after the credits.

Ultimately, I suspect The Odyssey will be remembered as one of the year’s biggest cinematic events, and deservedly so. Nolan has once again reminded audiences why epic filmmaking belongs in theaters, where stories of mythic scale can be experienced communally rather than consumed individually at home.

I only wish the storytelling had matched the magnificence of the filmmaking.

For all its extraordinary craftsmanship, The Odyssey left me marveling at its images more than feeling the weight of Odysseus’ journey. In the end, Nolan delivers an unforgettable cinematic experience, but not, for me, an unforgettable telling of Homer’s timeless epic.

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

MINIONS & MONSTERS

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Understands that movie magic isn’t merely that which you watch—it’s something you feel.

Some movies entertain us. Others remind us of why we fell in love with movies int he first place–Minions & Monsters is the latter. The Minions franchise has always revolved around a simple premise: these delightfully chaotic yellow creatures are forever searching for the next great master to serve. It is a formula that has produced plenty of laughs over the years, but Minions & Monsters wisely recognizes that every successful franchise eventually reaches a point where it must grow beyond its original concept. This film does exactly that.

Rather than centering its story on finding another larger-than-life villain, Minions & Monsters becomes something far more personal. It is about loving something so deeply that it becomes an extension of who you are. In this case, that something is the movies themselves.

Following the Minions through the history of Hollywood, the film functions simultaneously as a celebration of cinema, a playful history lesson, and a heartfelt story about pursuing dreams despite setbacks. Along the way, audiences are reminded of an era when movies were events rather than simply another form of “content” competing for our attention.

The filmmakers understand that cinema has always been more than projected images on a screen. Movies preserve dreams. They inspire careers. They connect generations. They remind us that imagination has value.

That affection radiates from nearly every frame.

The film’s greatest strength is its sincerity. It never treats its love of Hollywood as irony or nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. Instead, it celebrates the people who built the industry and the enduring magic of storytelling itself. Watching the Minions stumble through different periods of filmmaking becomes less a parade of references and more a reminder of why the medium has endured for more than a century.

There is also an unmistakably classical quality to the storytelling. The narrative is clean, purposeful, and emotionally satisfying. Rather than chasing endless subplots or frantic spectacle, the film remains focused on its characters and their journey. It understands a lesson that many contemporary blockbusters have forgotten: audiences become invested in stories because they care about the people experiencing them.

Perhaps that is why Minions & Monsters feels so refreshing.

It channels the optimism and emotional earnestness of the great Hollywood studio era. One can almost imagine producers like Darryl F. Zanuck or David O. Selznick smiling at the film’s belief that stories—and the people who tell them—matter. More importantly, the movie reminds us that cinema is not merely something we watch. It is something we feel.

That is a surprisingly profound message for an animated comedy featuring yellow, gibberish-speaking creatures. Yet somehow, it works.

Minions & Monsters is highly entertaining, frequently funny, and filled with genuine heart. More than that, it serves as a joyful celebration of the movies themselves—a reminder that behind every projector beam lies the possibility of wonder. And in an era when so much of the entertainment industry speaks of algorithms, franchises, and content, that’s a message well worth celebrating.

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