Category Archives: Movie Review

BLACK PHONE 2 horror movie review

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Don’t answer the call—best to let go to voicemail.

Atmospheric but empty. Black Phone 2 may ring with eerie potential, but what you’ll hear on the other end is mostly static. You just as soon use a telegraph service to form a connection between the big screen and audience than the calls this movie desperately makes. Derrickson demonstrates that he can certainly direct the heck out of a horror movie, but it might be time for someone else to write the next call–or at the very least, he should perhaps stop hiring his friend as a writing partner. While the film succeeds in delivering a chilling, oppressive atmosphere, reminding us that Derrickson remains one of horror’s more visually articulate directors, it also reinforces the unfortunate truth that he’s a far better director than writer. What we have here is another casualty of the writer-director syndrome; which is to suggest that one can be a stylistic filmmaker or even auteur without need to wear both hats. Some filmmakers are better directors, some better writers–and that’s okay! While Black Phone 2 begins with promise, it quickly devolves into a frustrating exercise in squandered ideas, tonal inconsistency, and narrative disarray.

Bad dreams haunt 15-year-old Gwen as she receives calls from the black phone and sees disturbing visions of three boys being stalked at a winter camp. Accompanied by her brother, Finn, they head to the camp to solve the mystery, only to confront the Grabber — a killer who’s grown even more powerful in death.

The film ambitiously sets out to expand upon the supernatural mythology introduced in the 2022 original. Derrickson clearly wants to explore the dream world as a deeper psychological battleground—echoing the meta-horror energy of A Nightmare on Elm Street III: Dream Warriors. But instead of capturing that sequel’s inspired creativity and emotional cohesion, Black Phone 2 feels more like a discount version of a superior brand. The screenplay introduces a fascinating set of “rules” for how this dream realm operates, only to immediately ignore or contradict them, leaving the audience confused rather than intrigued. Internal logic is sacrificed for jump scares and contrived character beats that go nowhere.

And speaking of characters—if you can call them that—most are little more than human wallpaper. Half the ensemble feels like a collection of movie people consisting of broadly sketched types that serve a single plot function before fading into irrelevance. Others border on offensive caricature, perpetuating inaccurate and disparaging stereotypes. For all intents and purposes, about three-and-a-half characters can be removed from the movie, and the story play out much the same. Why that half-character? Because, they do help develop the plot in a measurable way–albeit a modicum of development. When a film’s supporting cast functions more like furniture versus people, no amount of spooky atmosphere can save it. The best written and developed character was Demián Bichir’s Armando.

Still, there are moments, scenes, and even entire sequences that remind us of Derrickson’s undeniable craftsmanship. His camera captures dread beautifully; his sense of timing and space within the frame conjures genuine unease. There are glimpses of a haunting, emotionally resonant movie buried somewhere beneath the fractured structure and incoherent script. Unfortunately, those glimpses are fleeting. And that’s the great tragedy here—not just for Black Phone 2, but for a growing trend in contemporary filmmaking: the writer-director who insists on doing it all, in the name of authorship.

Once upon a time, filmmakers understood that collaboration was the lifeblood of cinema. Directors directed. Writers wrote. And when both crafts worked in harmony, we got films that not only looked great but meant something. Somewhere along the line, “auteur” became synonymous with “solo act,” and too many directors convinced themselves that to have a voice, they had to pen the script too. The result? Movies that look immaculate but feel hollow—visual symphonies built on shaky foundations.

Derrickson is a perfect example (another is Jordan Peele). As a director, his command of tone and atmosphere is nearly peerless; his work in horror often hums with intelligence and mood. But Black Phone 2 exposes the limits of his pen. The foundation for a compelling story is here—the bones of something rich and psychologically resonant—but the film never benefits from a writer who truly cares about character, motivation, or thematic depth. It’s as though Derrickson fell so in love with his own concept and craft that he forgot to ask whether the story itself deserved that devotion.

A gifted director needn’t be the writer to be an auteur. In fact, some of the greatest auteurs—Hitchcock, Spielberg, even Fincher–are those who know the value of letting a skilled screenwriter shape the clay before they bring it to life. Black Phone 2 might have been a haunting triumph had Derrickson trusted someone else, other than his friend, to write the words for the world he so clearly knows how to visualize. Instead, we’re left with a reminder that even the most talented filmmaker can’t build a cathedral on a cracked foundation.

By the time the credits roll, Black Phone 2 feels like a series of individually thoughtful scenes strung together by a story that never quite finds its pulse. It’s a patchwork of ideas that might have worked—had they been developed, connected, or earned. The result is a film that looks and sounds like a horror movie, but never feels like one worth the cost of time.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio 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

WHEN CINEMA SANG: TOP TEN MOVIE SONGS OF THE 1980s

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When we look back at the films of the 1980s, it’s impossible to separate the images on screen from the songs that scored them. This was the decade when movie music didn’t just underscore the action—it defined it. A single track could embody the spirit of a film while simultaneously capturing the mood of an entire generation. And remarkably, so many of those songs remain with us today. They’re still streamed on playlists, still belted out at karaoke, still instantly recognizable from their opening chords. The 1980s gave us movie songs that became cultural landmarks, and in many ways, they’ve never stopped playing.

Among the long arc of cinema history, the 1980s stand out as the high-water mark of the movie song. This was the era when a soundtrack single could leap to the top of the charts overnight, transforming into a cultural event in its own right. Whether it was an infectious pop hook or a soaring power ballad, these songs weren’t just background music; they were stitched into the fabric of the films and the culture itself. Think of the triumphant synth-drenched pulse of Flashdance…What a Feeling, the high-octane rush of Danger Zone, or the emotional catharsis of Wind Beneath My Wings. The decade leaned into the marriage of sound and image with unapologetic boldness, and in doing so created songs as enduring as the films they came from—sometimes even more so.

Why have they endured? Partly because they articulated universal experiences—ambition, risk, heartbreak, friendship—in melodies and lyrics that were at once sincere and unforgettable. The 1980s were an era of spectacle, melodrama, and unabashed emotion, and the songs mirrored that ethos. They became sonic shorthand for youth, energy, rebellion, and joy. In an age when MTV amplified every movie track into a visual pop event, these songs weren’t merely incidental—they were emotional anchors, marketing juggernauts, and narrative engines. Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now carried Mannequin’s optimism beyond the multiplex and into wedding halls. Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 gave voice to working-class frustration while climbing the radio charts. And Don’t You (Forget About Me) is now inseparable from Judd Nelson’s raised fist in The Breakfast Club. These weren’t just songs in movies; they became shorthand for the decade’s imagination.

Why don’t we have these same kind of songs today? There’s been a cultural shift–most noticeably in the 2020s, but has its roots in the mid to late 1990s. By the 1990s and 2000s, the conditions that made such songs possible began to fade. Pop soundtracks increasingly licensed pre-existing hits rather than commissioning originals. Franchise filmmaking turned toward instrumental scores and brand cohesion rather than big, show-stopping anthems. And as music videos lost their central cultural role, so too did the symbiotic relationship between cinema and pop radio. The cultural machine that once elevated a movie song into a generational anthem simply no longer works the same way.

Reflecting upon more recent years, much of 2020s pop and movie music is created in a climate of deep cynicism and fragmentation. Songs today are often crafted for algorithms, for virality on TikTok, or as ironic counterpoints in film soundtracks rather than as emotional anchors. Other songs carry with them a tone of anger or polarization. Audiences, steeped in skepticism toward institutions, media, and even each other, tend to reward irony, detachment, or knowing self-parody over the kind of unguarded sincerity that defined the 80s. A song that earnestly belts out its hopes risks being labeled “cheesy” or “dated,” whereas in the 1980s, that very boldness was the point.

One of the most striking contrasts between the 1980s and the 2020s is the sense of permanence. The movies and music of the 1980s were made with a boldness that seemed intent on lasting—on making an impression that would outlive the decade itself. By contrast, much of today’s popular culture, both in film and in music, feels designed for rapid consumption rather than long-term resonance–its largely disposable.

Songs today are often crafted not for endurance but rather for algorithms—engineered to spike on streaming platforms, go viral on TikTok, or capture a brief window of attention on curated playlists. In that sense, music has become increasingly functional: it serves a moment, a meme, a mood, but rarely aspires to the kind of cultural monumentality that defined the best of the 1980s. The hooks are short, the structures lean toward repetition, and the lifespan of a hit can sometimes be measured in weeks rather than years. The same phenomenon is evident in today’s movies. Franchise blockbusters dominate the box office, but their cultural imprint often fades once the next installment arrives. Films are built as nodes in larger intellectual property ecosystems, not as singular artistic statements. Just as contemporary songs often feel interchangeable—quickly eclipsed by the next release—so too do many films function as disposable content, part of a cycle of endless consumption rather than enduring cultural landmarks.

By comparison, the movies and songs of the 1980s embraced scale and spectacle not just for immediate impact but for legacy. A hit song wasn’t simply filler for a soundtrack; it was an anthem meant to outlive its film, designed to thrive on the radio, MTV, and in the cultural memory. Similarly, films were often built as self-contained phenomena: E.T., Top Gun, Back to the Future—movies that carried an aura of event cinema and refused to feel like disposable installments. This is not to say that contemporary culture lacks quality (although that appears to be increasingly true, in the opinion of this scholar and critic), but rather that its structures encourage disposability. With so much “content” (the use of content versus film or music is intentional) being produced at such speed, both music and movies are often designed to capture attention briefly rather than to linger. The result is a cultural landscape that feels ephemeral, where few works are positioned to endure in the way that 1980s soundtracks and films continue to do.

Suffice it to say, the movie songs of the1980s sought to define a generation; today, music and movies often just try to define a moment.

It appears all too clear that in the 1980s, movies weren’t just stories we watched; they were songs we sang, dances we learned, and emotions we carried. It wasn’t simply a golden age of movie music—this era was the last time cinema’s soundtrack felt like the heartbeat of the culture. In our present times, wherein pop culture often reflects uncertainty and disillusionment, the 1980s (extending into the 1990s) stand as the last great era when music from movies felt larger than life, confident enough to aim for forever. Moreover, these songs transcend generations by speaking directly to universal desires—love, empowerment, joy, escape—modern songs often feel locked, chained to their cultural moment or fixated on a particular socio-political lament.

The 1980s–when cinema sang! What the 1970s did for cinematic scores, the 1980s did for music that wrapped us in the cinematic experience.

This week, on my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media, I sat down with returning guest and friend of the show music professor Dr. Steven DiBlasi to countdown our Top Ten Movie Songs of the 1980s. Our respective lists both aligned and diverged, covering the wide spectrum of great, memorable movie songs. This is where I am going to direct you to listen to the show (approx 1hr) to avoid spoilers, but if you’re more of a reader than a listener, then you can find our ranked lists below.

Listen

Top Ten Movie Songs of the 1980s

Mine (Ryan’s)

Dr. DiBlasi’s

  • 10. Stir It Up (Beverly Hills Cop)
  • 9. Trust (Batman)
  • 8. Danger Zone (Top Gun)
  • 7. Wind Beneath My Wings (Beaches)
  • 6. Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now (Mannequin)
  • 5. 9 to 5 (9 to 5)
  • 4. Goonies R Good Enough (The Goonies)
  • 3. Maniac (Flashdance)
  • 2. NeverEnding Story (The NeverEnding Story)
  • 1. Flashdance…What a Feeling (Flashdance)
  • 10. In Your Eyes (Say Anything)
  • 9. The Heat is On (Beverly Hills Cop)
  • 8. Don’t You Forget About Me (The Breakfast Club)
  • 7. Footloose (Footloose)
  • 6. Fight the Power (Do the Right Thing)
  • 5. Take My Breath Away (Top Gun)
  • 4. Purple Rain (Purple Rain)
  • 3. Eye of the Tiger (Rocky)
  • 2. The Power of Love (Back to the Future)
  • 1. Ghostbusters (Ghostbusters)

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media and host of the public radio 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

TOP 10 FILM SCORES OF THE 1970s: AN ECLECTIC DECADE OF TRANSFORMATION

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Film scoring in the 1970s was nothing short of revolutionary. This was a decade in which composers and filmmakers experimented with sound in bold, unprecedented ways. Sweeping orchestras still had their place, but they now shared the stage with eerie minimalism, jazz-infused soundscapes, synthesizers, and even progressive rock. The result was a period of extraordinary breadth and innovation—one that gave us some of the most iconic film music ever written.

At the heart of this decade stood John Williams and Jerry Goldsmith, two composers who dominated in very different ways. Williams revived the lush, symphonic tradition and brought it back to the masses with scores that became cultural phenomena. Goldsmith, meanwhile, was the chameleon—endlessly inventive, prolific, and daring, whether working with avant-garde techniques, electronic experimentation, or lyrical orchestrations. Yet the decade was not defined by them alone. Outsiders like Goblin, with their phantasmagorical score for Suspiria, or directors such as John Carpenter, who electrified horror with nothing more than a chilling piano rhythm in Halloween, proved that iconic film music could be born outside the studio system. Jazz, soul, and early R&B also found their way into major works, mirroring the diverse cultural pulse of the era.

The soundscape of the 1970s was one where tradition collided with innovation. Bernard Hermann closed out his legendary career with Taxi Driver, a jazz-infused urban nightmare that distilled both character and city into sound. Jerry Goldsmith, the consummate innovator, moved effortlessly from the operatic choral terror of The Omen to the avant-garde dissonance of Alien and the melancholy trumpet of Chinatown—not to mention his enduring Star Trek theme, launched in The Motion Picture. Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells, adapted for The Exorcist, demonstrated that minimalist rock could chill as deeply as any orchestra. And Williams resurrected the grand symphonic tradition with Jaws and Star Wars, reintroducing sweeping themes and leitmotifs to a new generation. Taken together, these works made the 1970s both a bridge and a launchpad: honoring the past while daring to explore the future.

Audiences witnessed a resurgence of the full-bodied symphonic score, reviving the golden-age practice of leitmotif-driven composition. But while many scores channeled old Hollywood, these same scores were blazing new trails–trails that future filmmakers would tread and further develop in their own voices. Yet the 1970s were hardly a return to tradition alone. From fragmented jazz and abrasive brass to minimalist repetition that conveyed inevitability, film scores proved that music could disturb and destabilize as effectively as it could uplift. Musical expressions across a wide spectrum were represented and fused throughout the decade. This eclecticism was witnessed in the integration of jazz, rock, and popular styles into film scoring. Jazz, long associated with improvisation and urban grit, seeped into dramas and thrillers, while progressive rock and folk elements brought an otherworldly quality to European cinema.

This embrace of contemporary genres reflected the cultural currents of the 1970s, when popular music increasingly shaped the everyday soundscape. Although electronic instruments are often associated with the 1980s, experimentation with synthesizers truly began in the 1970s. By blending traditional compositional techniques with new technology, composers created atmospheres that felt immense, uncanny, and otherworldly. Horror, in particular, became the proving ground for these sonic experiments. From the satanic choral grandeur of The Omen to the eerie repetition of The Exorcist, the avant-garde unease of Alien, and the surrealism of Suspiria, horror films became laboratories for innovation—setting trends that rippled across genres.

The eclecticism of 1970s film scoring mirrored the turbulence and transformation of American life during that same decade. The United States was navigating a shifting cultural landscape—post-Vietnam disillusionment, Watergate’s erosion of political trust, an energy crisis, and social movements that challenged the norms of race, gender, and identity. Just as the nation was renegotiating its sense of self, film music was renegotiating its role in storytelling. The return of grand symphonic scores reflected a yearning for stability, heroism, and mythmaking in a time of uncertainty. At the same time, the rise of dissonance, minimalism, and electronic experimentation resonated with audiences living through an era of anxiety and rapid change. Just as the decade was defined by eclectic fashion, political unrest, and artistic upheaval, so too was its film music characterized by hybridity, boldness, and the breaking of old rules. The cinema became a cultural mirror, wherein the nation’s contradictions—fear and hope, nostalgia and progress, tradition and innovation—were set to music.

The 1970s also reasserted film scores as cultural touchstones, in ways not witnessed since Herrmann’s Psycho. John Williams work and name became instantly recognizable beyond the movie theatre, entering the cultural lexicon in a way few film scores had before. Jerry Goldsmith pushed the boundaries of what film music could evoke, Nino Rota created hauntingly elegant themes with operatic weight. Meanwhile, Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells proved that a minimalist rock piece could achieve global recognition and forever alter the sound of horror. Collectively, these works and more reestablished film music not merely as background support, but as a defining element of a film’s identity—inseparable from its success and enduring in the popular imagination.

The 1970s forever changed how we would hear cinema.

This week, on my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media, I sat down with music professor Dr. Steven DiBlasi to countdown our Top Ten Film Scores of the 1970s. Our respective lists both aligned and diverged, covering the wide spectrum of great, memorable film music that was the 1970s. Below, you will find our respective Top 10 lists, but for the full conversation (approx 1hr), you’ll want to listen to the episode!

Listen

Top 10 Film Scores of the 1970s

Mine (Ryan’s)

Dr. DiBlasi’s

  • 10. Taxi Driver (Bernard Herrmann, 1976)
  • 9. The Godfather (Nino Rota, 1972)
  • 8. Chinatown (Jerry Goldsmith, 1974)
  • 7. The Omen (Jerry Goldsmith, 1976)
  • 6. Alien (Jerry Goldsmith, 1979)
  • 5. Star Wars (John Williams, 1977)
  • 4. Jaws (John Williams, 1975)
  • 3. Suspiria (Goblin, 1977)
  • 2. Halloween (John Carpenter, 1978)
  • 1. The Exorcist (Mike Oldfield, 1973)
  • 10. The Petrified Forest (Toro Takemitsu, 1973)
  • 9. Days of Heaven (Ennio Morricone, 1978)
  • 8. Space is the Place (Sun Ra, 1974)
  • 7. A Clockwork Orange (Wendy Carlos, 1971)
  • 6. Don’t Look Now (Pino Donaggio, 1973)
  • 5. Shaft (Isaac Hayes, 1971)
  • 4. Taxi Driver (Bernard Hermann, 1976)
  • 3. Chinatown (Jerry Goldsmith, 1974)
  • 2. Hurricane (Nino Rota, 1979)
  • 1. Star Trek: TMP (Jerry Goldsmith, 1979)

Ultimately, the 1970s was a transformative decade of film music, both a bridge and a launchpad. It bridged the golden age of orchestral scoring with the bold experimentation of the modern era, while launching the blockbuster tradition and electronic innovation that would dominate the decades to come. The eclecticism of 1970s film music remains its hallmark, and its influence can still be heard in how cinema sounds today.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio 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 CONJURING: LAST RITES horror film review

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The screenplay should be exercised of the demons plaguing the narrative. While The Conjuring: Last Rites offers initial intrigue and a moderately compelling performative dimension, what substance the story had was undercut by a proliferation of monstrous encounters.

In 1986, paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren travel to Pennsylvania to vanquish a demon from a family’s home. This case would prove to be their last.

At its outset, the film suggests a promising return to the roots of this dozen-year-old horror franchise that began in 2013, hinting at a chilling and intimate confrontation with the supernatural. The mood is suitably dark, and the premise—while familiar—has just enough mystery to draw the viewer in for what would appear to be tapping into its desire to be in the same vein as The Exorcist. For a time, it even teases the prospect of a measured, atmospheric entry into the Warrens’ saga. Unfortunately, the promise of the first act quickly gives way to a chaotic barrage of hollow frights and set-piece monsters that smother any narrative tension the film might have cultivated.

The greatest asset in the film is, without question, the lead casting of (returning) Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga and the addition of Mia Tomlinson as daughter Judy Warren and Ben Hardy as her fiancé Tony. Farmiga and Wilson remain the heart of the franchise–they are the soul reason this franchise continued for as long as it did. Their impeccable chemistry continues to play a vital role in lending credibility and weight to this story and the others in the franchise that would otherwise struggles to stay grounded. Combining Farmiga and Wilson with Tomlinson and Hardy, their collective performances carry an emotional authenticity that suggests a deeper, more resonant film lurking beneath the surface–too bad it was largely kept beneath the surface of the picture. Additionally, the supporting players, too, offer moderately compelling turns, doing what they can with material that rarely allows for nuance.

Where Last Rites falters most egregiously is in its writing—particularly in the second and third acts. What begins with threads of intrigue quickly unravels into a tangle of formulaic plot beats, ill-defined stakes, and a near-total abandonment of narrative discipline. The dialogue oscillates between expositional over-explaining and perfunctory banter, never achieving the kind of earnestness that made earlier entries memorable. By the climax, the story feels more like a theme park attraction than a descent into the occult. (Speaking of which, The Conjuring-verse would make for a fantastic Halloween Horror Nights House if an agreement between New Line Cinema and Universal Parks and Resorts could ever be reached).

Equally troubling is the film’s shallow and often misguided treatment of spiritual warfare. While The Conjuring-verse has historically dabbled in theological and metaphysical ideas, this installment offers only a cursory exploration—at times bordering on ignorance. Themes of faith, redemption, and evil are reduced to ornamental set dressing rather than being woven meaningfully into the narrative. Fundamental tenets of spiritual warfare are neglected: Scripture teaches that “demons tremble at His name” and that they cannot force a person, calling on the Lord, to take their own life or that of another—tempt, yes; coerce, no. This misunderstanding undercuts the stakes, turning spiritual conflict into spectacle rather than a profound struggle. Even William Friedkin’s The Exorcist handled these dimensions with reverence and gravity, whereas here they are clumsily exploited for empty shocks.

From a film craft perspective, the overreliance on CGI monsters is perhaps the final nail in the coffin for this horror franchise and universe. Where practical effects could have imbued the film with texture, tangibility, and dread, we are instead subjected to a parade of vapid, weightless apparitions. Without giving way to spoilers too much, there is a scene in which Lorraine is staring in to a sink that overflows with blood–CGI blood. If Kubrick could pull off the bloody elevator scene in The Shining then this movie could have used practical effects for this scene. I am not suggesting that practical effects alone would have “saved” the soul of this movies, but an increase in the degree to which practical and mechanical effects were integrated into the narrative certainly would’ve helped the movie feel more tangible. The jump scares—frequent and rarely earned—feel like mechanical interruptions rather than organic outgrowths of fear. It is horror by checklist, and it shows. By the time we arrive at the third act, nearly every scene or sequence has a series of jump scares that are predictable at best and lazy at worst. More character-driven moments and dramatic conflict would’ve been a great tool for emotional resets and plot/character development.

In the end, The Conjuring: Last Rites is neither the triumphant sendoff nor the atmospheric chiller it aspires to be. It is a film at war with its own instincts: part haunted house, part monster mash, and ultimately, part missed opportunity. All that said, it’s not a bad movie–it’s better than many of the other installments. But a franchise that needed to end with an Annabelle: Creation would up ending with an Annabelle.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio 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

NOBODY 2 action movie mini-review

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Lowbrow thrills, high-budget spectacle. Proof that sometimes all a B-movie needs is an A-list wallet to unleash maximum mayhem. At at one-and-a-half hours, its a fast-paced wild ride. Nobody 2 is precisely what you expect, plus you get treated to a rare appearance by big screen icon Sharon Stone.

Workaholic assassin Hutch Mansell takes his family on a much-needed vacation to the small tourist town of Plummerville. However, he soon finds himself in the crosshairs of a corrupt theme-park operator, a shady sheriff, and a bloodthirsty crime boss.

It’s as if the followup to 2021’s Nobody stumbled out of a neon-lit drive-in and somehow found itself with a blockbuster budget to burn. Where the first film offered a sly, bruised take on the “ordinary man goes berserk” formula, this sequel leans into the gleefully exaggerated: bigger fights, louder explosions, and a grin-worthy parade of bad guys to pummel. It’s still got that B-movie backbone—lean plotting, brisk runtime, and the sense that logic is secondary to spectacle—but it all works like a well-oiled machine.

While Bob Odenkirk’s Hutch delivers his outlandishly entertaining, no holds barred, logic-defying fight sequences, there’s the ace up the sleeve of Nobody 2: Sharon Stone. In a world where her film appearances have become a rare pleasure, her turn here as a campy, hyper-stylized villain is worth the ticket price alone. With every razor-edged line reading and wardrobe flourish, she seems to be savoring the role, delivering the kind of larger-than-life menace that feels ripped from the pages of a pulp novel. Stone doesn’t just play the villain—she plays with the villain, reveling in the absurdity without ever letting the stakes slip.

If the original Nobody was a gritty surprise, Nobody 2 is an unapologetic mash-up of grindhouse spirit and Hollywood muscle. It’s loud, it’s ludicrous, and it’s a fantastic time at the movies.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio 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