Tag Archives: Critics Association of Central Florida

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

SUPERGIRL (2026) superhero movie review

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Sometimes the greatest superpower a movie can possess is embracing its genre.

Supergirl delivers the kind of summer movie you remember from when you were a kid. For years, superhero films have become increasingly preoccupied with expanding cinematic universes, subverting audience expectations, or convincing viewers they are watching something more sophisticated than a comic-book movie. Supergirl takes a refreshingly different approach. It embraces the genre without apology, tells a straightforward story populated by engaging characters, and remembers that summer blockbusters are supposed to be fun.

About: When an unexpected and ruthless adversary strikes too close to home, Supergirl (Milly Alcock) reluctantly joins forces with an unlikely companion (Eve Ridley) for an interstellar journey of vengeance and justice.

An encouraging trend has begun to emerge this summer. Rather than chasing prestige or attempting to deconstruct their own genres, films like Mortal Kombat II, Masters of the Universe, and Supergirl have embraced the fundamentals of classical storytelling. Their plots are straightforward, their characters are engaging, and their primary objective is to entertain. In a season that has also produced films weighed down by self-seriousness and underdeveloped ideas, these adventures stand as reminders that fun and craftsmanship are not opposing virtues—they are often companions.

Despite a handful of technical shortcomings—including editing that occasionally lacks refinement and several action sequences hampered by murky lighting—Supergirl captures the spirit of the summer movies many of us grew up with. It moves confidently from one adventure to the next, balancing action, humor, and heart with an efficiency that keeps its brisk runtime moving at a steady pace.

Its greatest strength lies in its characters.

Kara Zor-El is more than simply another superhero navigating impossible circumstances. Her emotional journey is mirrored by that of Ruthye, whose determination and resilience immediately reminded me of Arya Stark from Game of Thrones. Together, the two characters offer contrasting responses to grief and trauma.

Kara represents what can happen when loss is internalized—when sorrow quietly shapes one’s identity and worldview. Ruthye, by contrast, refuses to allow tragedy to dictate her future. Rather than denying her pain, she demonstrates that healing begins when we decide to master our trauma rather than allowing it to master us.

The relationship between these two characters provides the emotional foundation for the entire film. Then, there is Lobo.

Played with infectious enthusiasm by Jason Momoa, Lobo provides much of the movie’s comic relief while simultaneously embodying a completely different response to suffering. If Kara internalizes trauma and Ruthye overcomes it, Lobo simply laughs in its face. His chaotic, nihilistic worldview makes him feel like an intergalactic descendant of Meat Loaf’s Eddie from The Rocky Horror Picture Show—equal parts absurd, dangerous, and strangely lovable. Momoa clearly understands exactly what kind of movie he’s in, and his performance is all the better for it.

Visually, Supergirl offers one of the most imaginative alien landscapes seen in a mainstream science-fiction film in years. Not since Star Trek: The Next Generation—or perhaps the original Star Wars trilogy—have I seen such a delightful assortment of extraterrestrial species occupying the same cinematic space. The production wisely relies on a combination of practical costumes, prosthetic makeup, and computer-generated creatures. Ironically, the practical work often proves more convincing than the fully digital creations, lending the universe a tangible charm that many contemporary blockbusters lack.

Perhaps the film’s most surprising accomplishment, however, is its confidence in traditional storytelling.

Rather than endlessly chasing twists or deconstructing the superhero formula, Supergirl embraces classical screenwriting structure. Every major dramatic beat—from the inciting incident and catalyst through the midpoint, crisis, climax, and resolution—arrives naturally and purposefully. The result is a narrative that feels coherent, satisfying, and remarkably well-paced. In an era where many blockbuster films mistake unpredictability for sophistication, there is something refreshing about a movie that understands the enduring value of solid dramatic construction.

No, Supergirl is not reinventing the superhero movie, nor should it have done so.

Instead, it reminds audiences why they fell in love with comic-book adventures in the first place. It delivers colorful worlds, memorable characters, genuine humor, emotional sincerity, and enough spectacle to satisfy without ever losing sight of the people at the center of the story. Sadly, that combination is becoming increasingly rare these days.

Supergirl may not aspire to redefine the genre, but it succeeds at something arguably more difficult: reminding us just how enjoyable a well-told superhero story can be.

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

PRESSURE (2026) film review

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Some of history’s most consequential battles are won before the first shot is fired.

Few people associate D-Day with weather forecasting. Fewer still know the name James Stagg. Yet without his forecast, one of the most important military operations in history may have unfolded very differently.

Based on the stage play by David Haig, who also adapts his own work for the screen, Pressure transforms a little-known chapter of World War II into an engaging drama about uncertainty, responsibility, and the burden of decision-making. On paper, a film centered on meteorologists debating atmospheric conditions in the days leading up to the Normandy invasion sounds like the sort of project destined for educational television or a museum visitor center. Instead, it becomes a surprisingly compelling thriller, one driven less by combat than by anticipation.

At the center of the story is Dr. James Stagg, portrayed by Andrew Scott in a performance that quietly anchors the entire film. Stagg is tasked with delivering the weather forecast that will help determine whether General Dwight Eisenhower proceeds with the largest amphibious invasion in military history. Scott understands that the drama lies not in weather patterns themselves, but in the crushing responsibility that accompanies them. Every cloud formation, pressure system, and forecast carries potentially catastrophic consequences. His performance is restrained, thoughtful, and deeply human. Even when surrounded by military officers and strategic planners, Scott commands the audience’s attention.

One of the film’s greatest strengths is its structure. Although audiences know D-Day ultimately proceeds, Pressure still manages to generate genuine suspense. The ticking clock becomes a powerful dramatic device as military leaders await Stagg’s final recommendation. Every conversation, disagreement, and meteorological update points toward the same looming decision. Unlike many contemporary films that mistake a series of events for storytelling, Pressure understands the value of narrative momentum. Every scene serves a purpose. Every moment contributes to the mounting tension.

The film’s theatrical origins are occasionally visible, particularly in its dialogue-heavy scenes and confined settings. Yet rather than feeling limited by its stage roots, Pressure successfully expands beyond them. Haig’s screenplay retains the intimacy and character focus of a play while allowing the camera to explore a broader world. The result feels cinematic without sacrificing the strengths of the source material.

Kerry Condon provides excellent support as Kay Summersby, Eisenhower’s driver and confidante. Summersby injects welcome humor into an otherwise tense environment, but more importantly, she serves as one of the film’s most grounded voices. In rooms often dominated by military hierarchy and scientific debate, she offers practical observations and challenges assumptions with refreshing directness. Condon ensures the character never feels relegated to the sidelines.

The film’s most significant weakness comes in the form of Brendan Fraser’s portrayal of General Dwight Eisenhower. Fraser never quite settles into the role. Where Scott’s performance is measured and restrained, Fraser operates at a perpetual state of intensity. Eisenhower spends much of the film sounding as though every conversation represents the climax of a different movie. Rather than conveying the quiet burden of command, Fraser often feels as though he is performing the idea of leadership. It is not a disastrous performance, but it remains the film’s least convincing element.

When the invasion finally arrives, Pressure wisely avoids attempting to compete with films such as Saving Private Ryan or 1917. The D-Day sequences lack the spectacle and visceral emotional impact of those celebrated works, but they remain effective because they are viewed through a different lens. This is not a film about the men storming the beaches. It is a film about the people whose decisions helped determine when that assault would begin.

Watching Pressure on June 6—the anniversary of D-Day itself—felt particularly fitting. The film shines a spotlight on an overlooked participant in one of history’s defining moments and reminds us that history is often shaped not only by those who fight battles, but also by those who make the difficult decisions behind them.

It may never achieve the stature of the great World War II epics, but it succeeds admirably on its own terms. By transforming weather forecasting into compelling drama, Pressure honors an unsung hero and proves that suspense can be found in the most unlikely places.

Listen to my conversation with Brad Biewer of the CinemaSpeak Podcast on this week’s episode of ReelTalk. (Podbean, Apple, Spotify, etc).

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

OBSESSION horror movie review

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obsession never quite discovers its equivalent thematic center.

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

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

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

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

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

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