Tag Archives: Cinema

Cinema is big. It’s the Oscars that got small.

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From the Big Screen to the Smallest: The Oscars and the Final Lament for Cinema

In 1929, the Academy Awards were born alongside the consolidation of cinema as the defining art form of the twentieth century. The Oscars did not merely honor motion pictures; they sanctified the big screen as a cathedral of light where stories were projected larger than life, and where audiences gathered together in reverent silence to be transformed. Nearly a century later, the announcement that the Oscars will move to YouTube in 2029 feels less like an adaptation and more like a capitulation. It’s a moment of inflection that reads, unmistakably, as a eulogy.

Anyone who has followed my work on Twitter or my blog for any length of time knows that I effectively gave up on the Oscars years ago. Even so, this announcement demands cultural analysis and reflection on its deeper implications. One needn’t be a devoted viewer of the ceremony to recognize the ongoing erosion of cinema itself; disengagement does not preclude clear sight, and distance often sharpens it.

There is a morbid irony in a ceremony created to celebrate cinema’s grand scale choosing to live on the smallest screen possible. The Oscars migrating to YouTube is not simply a platform change; it is a symbolic reversal of values. The institution that once affirmed spectacle, patience, and collective experience now aligns itself with the very medium that played a decisive role in cinema’s metaphoric death—fragmented attention, algorithmic taste-making, and content flattened into disposable scrolls. What was once king has voluntarily donned the motley of the court jester.

For decades, the Oscars functioned as a kind of cultural mass. Even when ratings declined, the ceremony retained its claim to seriousness. It insisted—sometimes stubbornly—that movies mattered, that craft mattered, that the labor of hundreds could still culminate in something worthy of ritual. To move this rite to YouTube is to concede that cinema no longer warrants ceremony at all. It is now content, indistinguishable from reaction videos, vlogs, and monetized outrage. The awards will play not to the gods of light and shadow, but to the lowest common denominator of engagement.

This decision cannot be disentangled from the broader arc traced in the manuscript on which I am presently writing Are You Still Watching? Solving the Case of the Death of Cinema, which is my followup book to Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror releasing in October 2026. The internet did not merely change distribution; it reprogrammed desire. It replaced anticipation with immediacy, reverence with irony, and stars with personalities. The movie star—once a distant, luminous figure whose very remoteness fueled myth—has been rendered obsolete by constant access (except for you Tom Cruise–you are the last remaining movie star in the classical sense). When everyone is visible at all times, no one can remain larger than life. In this sense, the internet did not just kill the movie star; it dismantled the conditions required for stardom to exist.

The Golden Era understood something we have since forgotten: limitation creates meaning. The big screen mattered because it was rare. The theatrical experience mattered because it demanded surrender—of time, of attention, of comfort. The Oscars mattered because they crowned achievements that could not be reduced to metrics. Box office was discussed, but it did not dictate value. Craft, risk, and ambition still held currency. One cannot imagine the architects of Hollywood—those who built studios, nurtured stars, and believed in cinema as a national dream—viewing this moment without despair. The roll call of names etched into Oscar history now echoes like a rebuke.

The move to YouTube completes a long erosion. First came the shrinking theatrical window, then the dominance of streaming, then the rebranding of films as “content.” Each step was defended as pragmatic, inevitable, even democratic. Yet inevitability is often the language of surrender. By placing the Oscars on YouTube, the Academy signals that it no longer believes cinema deserves its own stage—literal or metaphorical. It accepts, finally, that movies are just another tile in the feed.

What makes this moment especially tragic is that it arrives cloaked in the rhetoric of accessibility. YouTube promises reach, youth, relevance. But to what end and at what cost? Cinema was never meant to be optimized for virality. Its power lay in duration, in immersion, in the audacity to ask audiences to sit still and feel deeply. An awards show on YouTube does not elevate cinema to the digital age; it drags cinema down to the logic of the internet, where attention is fleeting and meaning is provisional. That which is required by the desired algorithm will be that which dictates the ceremony and pageantry thereof.

And yet, this lament is not without pride. There was a time when this industry truly was an industry of dreams. When the Oscars crowned films that expanded the language of the medium. When a win could alter a career not through branding, but through trust—trust that audiences would follow artists into challenging territory. That history cannot be erased by an algorithm, even if it can be buried beneath one.

If the Oscars moving to YouTube does not signal the death of cinema, it is difficult to imagine what would. It is the final nail not because it kills something vibrant, but because it seals a coffin long prepared. What remains will continue to exist—films will still be made, awards will still be handed out—but the animating belief that cinema is a singular, communal art form has been surrendered.

The tragedy is not that the Oscars will stream on YouTube. The tragedy is that, in doing so, they admit they no longer know what they are mourning.

This loss of self-knowledge did not arrive overnight. Long before the platform shift, the ceremony began to erode its own authority through an increasing embrace of socio-political posturing by hosts and award recipients alike. What was once a night dedicated, however imperfectly, to the celebration of films, performances, and craft gradually transformed into a sequence of soapboxes. The Oscars mistook moral exhibitionism for relevance, and in doing so alienated a broad public that tuned in not for lectures, but for an affirmation that movies themselves still mattered.

This is not an argument against artists holding convictions, nor a denial that cinema has always intersected with politics. Rather, it is an indictment of a ceremony that lost the discipline to distinguish between art and advocacy. When acceptance speeches routinely overshadowed the work being honored, the implicit message was clear: the films were secondary. Viewers responded accordingly. Ratings declined not merely because of streaming competition, but because the ceremony no longer respected its own premise. Had hosts and winners remained anchored in the films—celebrating storytelling, performance, direction, and the collaborative miracle of production—the Oscars might have retained their standing as a cultural commons rather than a partisan spectacle.

In surrendering the focus on cinema itself, the Academy weakened the very case for its continued relevance.

Progress is often invoked as an unqualified good, but history suggests it is more accurately understood as an exchange—one that invariably involves loss. Sometimes that “loss” isn’t’ felt immediately, but there is inevitably some mild, moderate, or signifiant loss somewhere. Every cultural advance carries a cost, and the measure of true progress lies in whether what is gained outweighs what is surrendered. In the case of the Oscars, the pursuit of modernity, relevance, and moral signaling came at the expense of gravitas, neutrality, and shared cultural meaning. What was gained—momentary applause within narrow circles, fleeting relevance in the news cycle—proved insufficient compensation for what was lost: broad public trust, ceremonial dignity, and the sense that this night belonged to everyone who loved movies, not just those who spoke the loudest.

When institutions confuse change with improvement, they often wake to find that they have survived only in form, not in spirit.

Taken together, the Oscars decline follows a macabre logic—a ceremony founded to exalt scale, craft, and collective experience gradually surrendered its authority by de-centering movies themselves—first through moral grandstanding, then through technological appeasement, and finally through full assimilation into the internet’s attention economy. Each step was justified as necessary, inclusive, or inevitable. Yet the cumulative effect was corrosive. The Oscars did not lose relevance because audiences abandoned cinema; audiences abandoned the ceremony because it no longer stood for cinema as something distinct, demanding, and worthy of reverence.

What remains is a hollowed-out ritual, stripped of its gravitational pull, migrating to YouTube not as a bold reinvention but as an admission of defeat. The move completes the journey from cathedral to feed, from shared cultural moment to algorithmic afterthought. It confirms that the Academy has chosen survival at the cost of meaning—and in doing so, has preserved the shell of the institution while relinquishing its soul.

Gloria Swanson’s Norma Desmond, reflecting on the industry’s changing fortunes, once delivered an epitaph that now feels uncomfortably prophetic: “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small.” A century after the birth of the Oscars, her words resonate with renewed clarity. Cinema did not shrink because audiences demanded less; it shrank because its stewards accepted less.

The Oscars’ migration to the smallest screen is not progress; it’s the final confirmation that something vast, communal, and luminous has been allowed to diminish, and that what replaced it was not worth the cost. A ceremony that no longer centered movies should not be surprised when audiences stopped gathering to watch it. The move to YouTube, then, feels less like a sudden betrayal and more like the logical endpoint of a long retreat: from celebration to commentary, from reverence to rhetoric, from a shared night at the movies to just another argument in the feed.

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

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

MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE–THE FINAL RECKONING film review

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What a picture! Mission: Impossible–The Final Reckoning is an exhilarating end to a 29 year old journey. The scale and scope of the final chapter in Tom Cruise’s tenure as Ethan Hunt is out of this world. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, the cast and crew of this film delivered their best to “all those that [they] will never meet.” That’s us–the audience–we are those they will likely never meet. Such a fitting climax to one of the biggest franchises ever to hit the big screen. For everything the movie did right and excellent, it’s not without some shortcomings in the screenwriting. While the first act starts off a little clunky, it does eventually falls into place during the first act. Additionally, fans of the franchise will love the narrative connections to the preceding films, particularly Mission: Impossible and Mission: Impossible III. This is truly a cinematic spectacle deserving of every second on that big silver screen. Tom Cruise proves that he is still the definitive movie star.

Ethan Hunt and the IMF team race against time to find the Entity, a rogue artificial intelligence that can destroy mankind.

Writer-director Christopher McQuarrie brings Mission: Impossible (in its current incarnation) to a climactic close after 29 years. More than delivering a bombastic conclusion to the genre-defining franchise, he connects this film to all the preceding M:I films through both plot and character. Every moment feels earned–this movie and the cast and crew thereof–spare no expense of time or money in providing audiences with a spectacular cinematic experience that reminds us why big screen stories need the BIG SCREEN. Even though I do take issue with McQuarrie’s screenwriting in the first act–the first 15 minutes, or so, do feel a little disjoined and rushed–thankfully the remainder of the first act does fall into place. Not only do the characters have heart underscoring all the electrifying action sequences, the filmmakers involved in this have a heart for the audiences around the globe.

The IMF (Impossible Mission Force) oath reads, “We live and die in the shadows, for those we hold close, and for those we never meet.” And, in this movie, I don’t think that it merely means that the covert operatives and spycraft engineers carry out their missions behind the scenes of life, the way in which the line is delivered, I am all but certain that it’s a wink or nod to the audience indicating that McQuarrie, Cruise, and everyone involved make motion pictures for those they know, their friends and family, and everyone else out in the world that they may likely never meet. There is probably no other working actor out there that so vocally champions cinema like Tom Cruise. This is particularly true during and after COVID with his release of Top Gun: Maverick. Even in a press conference wherein Cruise was asked about the proposed international filmmaking tariffs by a reporter, and he redirected them to The Final Reckoning, because “we’re here to talk about the movie.” The trademark charisma, physics-defying stuntwork, and charm that Cruise brings to the screen serves as evidence why he truly is the definitive movie star working today.

Picking up in the months following the train incident from Dead Reckoning, The Final Reckoning thrusts audiences right into the middle of a world on the brink of WWIII. The entity has infected the internet and it looks like the end of the world, as we know it. Once again, Hunt is being hunted down by his government (and probably other governments too) because he refuses to let the United States have the key that would potentially give them control of the entity’s source code, because no one should be entrusted with that level of power or responsibility–not even Hunt and his IMF team. Ethan Hunt continues to stand up for what is right, the greater good even when it is the most unpopular stance or opinion to hold. Hunt and his team desire to destroy the entity so no one has access to its power and the entity cannot destroy the world so it and Gabriel can remake it in their image. The Final Reckoning forces us to look inward, and ask ourselves how we would react when faced with a world on the brink of disaster. Could we resist giving into our innate self-centered nature, even when disguised as the most logical choice? This movie is a challenge to humanity to always hold onto hope even when it appears to be impossible.

After the clunky start to the movie, the narrative begins to find its tone, pacing, and direction. I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a “McQuarrie Cut” that adds in cut scenes at the beginning. Other than the stars themselves, the star of this movie is practical effects and filmmaking themselves. The CGI is minimal, and is rarely front and center. McQuarrie and Cruise lean into practical effects, mechanical magic, and other elements that give the film a tangible dimension. You cannot replace the way real light bounces off real objects and into the camera lens in this outstanding motion picture. The Final Reckoning is as much a celebration of the decades-old franchise (and TV show even before the original movie in 1996) as it is a celebration of classical filmmaking. Even the scenes and sequences that felt a little too death-defying or unrealistic, they certainly feel naturalistic within the world on screen (though, I’d be lying if I said that some came a little close to being even unbelievable in a Mission: Impossible movie). Even thought he aerial stuntwork in this movie is the most intense we’ve seen, this movie also includes a lot of underwater stuntwork and action sequences. And I must say that is’t he dark, claustrophobic underwater sequences that had me on the edge of my seat. It really is nothing short of incredible what McQuarrie, Cruise, and their teams were able to do in this motion picture.

For fans of the franchise, particularly those that have rewatched the whole franchise leading up to this moment, there are characters from the past that appear in substantive ways and even plot points that were never fully explored int eh past are brought full circle. Few, if any, characters feel like one-dimensional space-fillers–which can easily happen in an action movie–every character has a purpose, has a motivation. We care about our central characters’ survival, we experienced a gut-wrenching death in Dead Reckoning, so we know that these IMF agents are human, they can die. All the more reason why we are completely invested in their survival.

Even though we may get a Mission: Impossible movie in the future, maybe even one with one or more of the IMF team members from this original run of movies, Cruise has stated, in not so many words, that this movie represents his final Mission: Impossible movie in which he is the star. If we have future M:I movies, I’d like to see him make an appearance or play a supporting role, because Tom Cruise IS Mission: Impossible. What I love about these movies is that they seek to entertain first and include any more thoughtful ideas or questions in the subtext or emotional drivers of characters. Entertainment first. So many movies nowadays have such a cynical view of life and traditional values, but here is franchise built on that which brings us all together as a community. High concept? Sure, but that high concept nature of the M:I movies has never meant a meaningless or vapid experience. These movies, and others like them (regardless of genre), are what cinema is all about. And I am sure going to miss looking forward to the next Mission: Impossible movie.

Thank you Tom. And thank you McQuarrie and past writers and directors for 29 years of unparalleled thrills and excitement on the silver screen.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk about all things cinema. 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

DROP (2025) movie mini-review

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“Drop” in on a lot of fun at the cinema. Universal and Blumhouse’s Drop is a highly entertaining Lifetime-esque thriller that requires a prescription-strength dosage of suspension of disbelief. With a charming cast and adrenaline pumping suspense and tension, Christopher Landon’s latest movie delivers an engaging time at the cinema.

Violet is a widowed mother who goes to an upscale restaurant to meet Henry, her charming and handsome date. However, her pleasant evening soon turns into a living nightmare when she receives phone messages from a mysterious, hooded figure who threatens to kill her young son and sister unless she kills Henry.

If you enjoy the Lifetime movies of the 2000s, then this is right up your alley. The stakes are high and you’ll empathize with our central character of Violet, and root for her and her family’s survival. Because the lead cast quickly makes a meaningful connection with the audience, the plot holes (and there are many) almost feel irrelevant because the movie’s strength isn’t so much in the realism of the plot as much as it is in the naturalism of the plot. The movie is disconnected sufficiently enough from reality that it functions as an escapist picture, therefore the fact that there is little to no way this plot could ever happen due to the ridiculous nature. Between the high camp, high stakes, and charming cast, Drop blends the aesthetics of a high-budget thriller with the emotional pitch of a Lifetime movie—often to hilarious and unexpectedly entertaining results.

From writer-director Christopher Landon, Drop is directed with the kind of slick, over-serious tone that almost dares you not to laugh, Drop thrives in that uncanny cinematic space where implausibility meets irresistible entertainment (a.k.a. the Lifetime movie formula). The film is not so much interested in realism as it is in emotional immediacy—and it serves it with gusto. What makes Drop work is the sheet Oscar-level commitment. In an era wherein movies that typically fall in the vein of this one, wink at the audience to cue them in on the joke, this movie never acknowledges the absurdity of the premise. Which proves to be the winning hand, because the audience’s experience is surprisingly immersive. The stakes may be inflated, but the emotions feel real in the moment, and that’s what keeps viewers engaged. it to be consumed by its tornado of drama.

Even though the movie never becomes self-aware of its absurdity, that isn’t to say that the campy levels of plot devices and drama don’t play a role–on the contrary–the movie’s absurdity is its strength. Whether you’re watching in genuine suspense or howling with friends at the sheer audacity of it all, Drop delivers. And it’s way more fun than it has any right to be. Solid as the plot is from a storytelling mechanics perspective, it definitely defies conventional logic. But the movie completely surpasses any expectations I had going into the movie. Drop is a deliciously unhinged suspense thriller that feels like a Lifetime movie on a Red Bull bender—highly recommended for fans of unintentional camp and cathartic chaos.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk about all things cinema. 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

OPUS (2025) film review

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An enigmatic puzzle with missing pieces. What starts as a fascinating psychological mystery quickly devolves into a series of disjointed, cryptic sequences that offer more questions than answers. Opus is certainly a haunting experience that delivers striking visuals, but the stylistic storytelling lacks substance, resulting in a film that is ultimately hollow. Like with so many A24 and Neon films, Opus is rich in atmosphere, but lacks strategic plotting, proper pacing, and demonstrable working knowledge of screenwriting mechanics. Moreover, it falls into an all too familiar trap of prioritizing aesthetic over storytelling. Opus is yet another example of modern arthouse cinema mistaking ambiguity for depth. The film posits many otherwise thoughtful questions, but leaves you wondering why you should even care about what you just watched.

Journalist Ariel (Ayo Edebiri) works for an acclaimed music magazine but has grown tired of her arrogant boss Stan (Murray Bartlett) assigning her good pitches to more senior writers. But following the reclusive, visionary pop star Alfred Moretti (John Malkovich) emerging from hiding after more than thirty years, Ariel’s boss is invited to his secluded, remote compound where he will be releasing a new album. Ariel and her boss are invited to attend as press. But not long after arriving, Ariel deduces that the compound’s collection of ardent admirers of Alfred are actually a cult with deadly plans for the guests.

Most of the film’s problems can be traced back to its screenplay. Like with many (if not most, in my opinion) writer-directors, this story likely made much more sense in Mark Anthony Green’s head, than it did on paper. I find that writer-directors often have excellent movie ideas and eyes for shot composition, but lack a working knowledge of screenwriting mechanics. Had Green collaborated with a more established screenwriter, then the film may not have had the plotting issues that plagued it the whole time.

Adding to the film’s plotting issues is its reliance on repetition rather than escalation. Scenes blend into one another with minimal variation, creating a sense of stagnation rather than rising tension. Ariel’s, our central character’s, journey is more about cycling through eerie encounters and vague hallucinations than actually uncovering deeper truths. Without a clearly defined external goal for Ariel, Opus feels like a film more concerned with its own mystique than engaging its audience. The goal could’ve been something as simple as getting the article published, but the film never quite has a throughline on which to land the diegetic plane.

While strong, the performative dimension of the film is underscored with style over substance. Ayo Edebiri’s performance is layered and emotionally compelling. Unfortunately, the film gives her little to work with beyond surface-level tension. John Malkovich, always a commanding presence, delivers an eerie gravitas, but his role feels more like a cryptic device than a fully developed character.

One of the biggest shortcomings in character development is the lack of meaningful relationships. While Opus teases conflicts between Ariel and her boss Stan, these tensions never evolve into anything substantial. All around, the film’s characters never form real, emotional connections, leaving their interactions feeling hollow. Without compelling relationships, the film struggles make us care about any of the characters, much less the central character of Ariel.

Opus seems content to let its themes remain vague, as though interpretation itself is the art. This approach works in moderation but ultimately leaves the film feeling like an unfinished composition—beautiful in pieces but lacking a resonant core.

A24 has perfected the art of marketing “prestige horror” films that emphasize mood over traditional storytelling. While this approach has resulted in some modern masterpieces such as “The Blackcoat’s Daughter,” “Hereditary,” and “Midsommar,” it has also encouraged a wave of films that mistake ambiguity for intelligence. Opus is a prime example of this trend, prioritizing its hypnotic cinematography and eerie sound design over a screenplay that provides emotional or intellectual engagement.

This raises the question: Has arthouse cinema become so obsessed with being enigmatic that it has lost sight of storytelling? Moreover, has the proliferation of “arthouse” films become the very thing they opposed: the mainstream? Films like Opus appear to be forcing audiences to assign meaning where there may be none, and delivering a film that looks great but is ultimately forgettable. The present trajectory of many arthouse film is trending is becoming the new cinematic fast food: tasty but forgettable and lacking in nutrition. In striving for profundity, these films, risk alienating viewers who crave narrative satisfaction alongside visual artistry.

There’s no denying Opus is visually arresting and technically impressive. Mark Anthony Green’s direction is meticulous, and Ayo Edebiri delivers a gripping performance. But beneath its meticulously crafted atmosphere lies a film that lacks emotional weight or thematic clarity. For fans of slow-burn psychological horror and puzzle-box storytelling, Opus may still be a rewarding experience. For others, it’s yet another reminder that style, no matter how dazzling, can never replace substance or sheer entertainment value.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk about all things cinema. 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