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MICHAEL (2026) biopic review

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Electrifying in look, disjointed in prose.

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

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

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

And the film knows it.

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

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

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

That limitation extends to the supporting characters as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BRIDE! (2026) movie review

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There’s a good movie somewhere inside The Bride!—perhaps several.

There’s a good movie somewhere inside The Bride!—perhaps several. The irony is that the film itself feels as Frankensteined together as the titular creation at its center. Maggie Gyllenhaal’s ambitious reinterpretation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and James Whale’s immortal Bride of Frankenstein (1935) clearly springs from a place of imaginative vision. The problem is not the ideas. The problem is that too many of them are stitched together without the narrative cohesion necessary to bring the creature fully to life. What emerges is a fascinating but uneven cinematic experiment: a film whose strongest parts often struggle against the whole.

In 1930s Chicago, groundbreaking scientist Dr. Euphronious (Annette Bening) brings a murdered young woman Ida (Jessie Buckley) back to life to be a companion for Frankenstein’s monster (Christian Bale). What happens next is beyond what either of them could ever have imagined.

There is little doubt that Gyllenhaal set out to craft an imaginative and thought-provoking reexamination of Frankenstein mythology. The ambition is evident in nearly every frame. Yet the screenplay and editing lack the discipline required to shape that ambition into something structurally coherent. In an ironic parallel to Frankenstein’s own creation, the film is assembled from intriguing narrative parts—each compelling in isolation—but collectively they never quite form a unified organism. Any one of those narrative threads might have served as a more stable foundation than the combination presented here.

It is possible that The Bride! may one day find a second life as a cult curiosity. Cinema history is filled with examples of films—The Rocky Horror Picture Show and even Showgirls—that were initially met with confusion before later audiences embraced their eccentricities. But both of those films possessed an essential ingredient that this one struggles to sustain: entertainment. Each of them understood its own satirical target and leaned confidently into the theatricality of its premise. The Bride! gestures toward satire but never fully commits to it. The result is a tonal tug-of-war between melodrama and camp. Had the film embraced the latter more confidently, the experience might have been far more exhilarating. Intentional camp signals to the audience that the filmmakers are in on the joke; here, the film often takes its own eccentricities too seriously.

Narratively, the film wanders. Yet the performative dimension proves far sturdier. Jessie Buckley and Christian Bale share a compelling chemistry that anchors the film whenever the plot threatens to drift. Annette Bening brings welcome gravitas to her doctor, while Penélope Cruz’s detective—though played with conviction—is underserved by a character that ultimately has too little to do. Indeed, the performances are what keep the audience invested when the narrative itself begins to lose its footing.

Visually, however, Gyllenhaal demonstrates undeniable directorial confidence. Her eye for composition yields moments of striking cinematic beauty. The cinematography and production design elegantly bridge old and new interpretations of the mad scientist mythos. Laboratories glow with stylized menace while the broader world of the film evokes both classical Hollywood romanticism and contemporary visual flair. Particularly during the musical interludes, lighting and camera movement become expressive tools rather than mere ornamentation.

One of the film’s most charming creative flourishes lies in its affectionate nods to classic romantic melodramas and golden-age song-and-dance spectacles. Busby Berkeley’s Footlight Parade, Gold Diggers of 1933, and other Warner Bros. musical traditions echo throughout the film, not merely as nostalgic references but as narrative devices that illuminate the emotional worlds of the characters. The moments when Frank (Bale), Ida (Buckley), and the camera operator drift into choreographed reverie feel as though they have stepped directly off a 1930s soundstage. In these sequences, the film’s imagination briefly achieves the synthesis the rest of the narrative seeks.

Yet structurally the film remains overburdened. Elements of Romeo and Juliet, Bonnie and Clyde, and The Bride of Frankenstein all compete for narrative dominance, while the shadow of Mary Shelley herself looms as an interpretive framework. Any one of these inspirations could have produced a compelling through-line with traces of the others woven in. Instead, the film attempts to juggle all of them simultaneously. The result is a narrative compass that spins without settling on a clear direction.

This imbalance points toward a broader issue increasingly visible in contemporary cinema: the challenge of the writer-director auteur. Gyllenhaal clearly possesses a strong visual sensibility and a director’s instinct for atmosphere and composition. But here the screenplay does not display the same level of discipline as the filmmaking. The modern industry often encourages directors to function simultaneously as writers and producers, yet history demonstrates that some of the greatest films emerge from collaboration rather than singular authorship. There are exceptional writer-directors—but they remain the exception rather than the rule. In this case, Gyllenhaal’s imaginative vision might have benefited enormously from the partnership of a dedicated screenwriter capable of translating those ideas into a tighter narrative structure.

None of this diminishes the ambition behind The Bride!. The film is imaginative, visually striking, and intermittently electrifying. It simply struggles to unify its many inspirations into a cohesive whole. With a stronger narrative foundation, Gyllenhaal’s directorial instincts might have produced something truly extraordinary.

Instead, we are left with a fascinating creature assembled from promising parts—alive, perhaps, but never quite fully formed. And like Frankenstein’s creation itself, the result inspires equal parts admiration and frustration.

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

NETWORK 50th Anniversary Review

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When satire ceases being satire–we’re living inside it.

There are films that feel timely, films that feel dated, and then there is Network—a work so disturbingly elastic that it seems to recalibrate its relevance with each passing decade. What Sidney Lumet’s incendiary masterpiece offered in 1976 as provocation now functions as diagnosis. Network ceased being satire the moment we began living inside it. And at fifty years on, it is no longer prophetic so much as instructional—a grim field manual for the media ecosystem we willingly built.

On its surface, Network is a scathing critique of television news and the corrosive marriage between journalism and entertainment. But that reading now feels almost quaint. Today, the film operates as a far more expansive lens—one through which we can examine social media’s performative outrage, the collapse of editorial integrity, the rise of influencers over actors, and “content” replacing cinema as both commodity and aspiration. The film’s possibilities for interpretation are not merely endless; they are inescapable.

You can listen to the NETWORK episode of ReelTalk, which serves as a great companion piece to this article through your favorite podcast service. For your convenience, I’ve included some links that may work for you.

When I survey the contemporary media landscape—where outrage is currency, truth is malleable, and spectacle supplants substance—I often find myself echoing Howard Beale’s immortal lament: “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” The tragedy, of course, is that Beale’s righteous fury is swiftly commodified, packaged, and sold back to the public. In Network, that process is the warning. In 2026, it is the business model.

What Network ultimately offers is not just a critique of television news, but an elegy for every so-called Golden Age of legacy media—journalism, cinema, and serialized television alike. Watching it now, I am reminded of Norma Desmond’s aching declaration in Sunset Boulevard: “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small.” Substitute “pictures” for platforms, algorithms, and engagement metrics, and the lament lands with devastating clarity. In my view, social media and streaming have not merely disrupted cinema and television; they have delivered a mortal wound—one from which craft, patience, and collective cultural experience may never fully recover.

Network endures first and foremost because it is built on one of the most ferocious screenplays ever put to film. Paddy Chayefsky’s Oscar-winning script is not merely well-written; it is weaponized language—monologues that cut like scalpels, dialogue that oscillates between blistering satire and operatic tragedy, and ideas so densely packed they continue to unfold decades later. This is writing that trusts intelligence, that dares to be verbose, ideological, and confrontational in a way modern studio cinema rarely permits. Chayefsky understood that words—spoken with conviction—could be more explosive than spectacle, and he built Network accordingly.

What makes the screenplay extraordinary is its refusal to choose a single target. It indicts television news, corporate capitalism, religious fervor, political apathy, and audience complicity with equal venom. The famous “mad as hell” speech is not a populist rallying cry so much as a trap—an emotional release engineered to be monetized, emptied of meaning, and repackaged as programming. Chayefsky was not predicting outrage culture; he was anatomizing it. In an era where dialogue is often sanded down to algorithm-friendly soundbites, Network feels almost alien in its literary ambition—proof that cinema once trusted language to carry weight, risk, and consequence.

Sidney Lumet’s direction is the perfect counterbalance: disciplined, precise, and deliberately unflashy. Lumet stages the film like a moral courtroom drama, allowing performances and ideas to occupy the foreground while the camera observes with quiet authority. His restraint is crucial. Rather than amplifying the satire through stylistic excess, Lumet grounds the absurdity in realism—office spaces feel oppressive, boardrooms feel sterile, and television studios feel eerily sacred. The effect is chilling: the madness is not heightened by cinematic flourish; it emerges organically from systems that feel frighteningly familiar.

Together, Chayefsky and Lumet create a film that feels less like a movie and more like a controlled detonation. There is no indulgence, no wasted motion, no attempt to soften the blow. In contrast to today’s cinema—often drowned in visual noise, diluted themes, and studio-mandated ambiguity—Network stands as a reminder of what happens when writing and direction operate with absolute clarity of purpose. It is fearless, articulate, and devastatingly focused. And perhaps most damning of all: it proves that cinema once had the courage to tell audiences the truth, even when that truth was deeply uncomfortable.

Yet if Network endures as forcefully as it does, it is not solely because of its prescience. It endures because it is performed with astonishing precision and gravitas by one of the greatest ensembles ever assembled. Peter Finch’s Howard Beale remains one of cinema’s most unforgettable figures—a man whose breakdown is mistaken for authenticity, whose humanity is exploited until nothing remains. Finch’s posthumous Academy Award win feels less like recognition than inevitability.

William Holden, meanwhile, brings a weary, world-worn melancholy to Max Schumacher that resonates deeply with his earlier turn as Joe Gillis in Sunset Boulevard. Both characters are men who recognize the rot of the system even as they remain complicit within it—observers with just enough moral clarity to feel shame, but not enough power to stop the machine. Holden’s quiet resignation here serves as the film’s conscience, a reminder of what professionalism and restraint once meant.

And then there is Faye Dunaway, delivering a tour de force for the ages—one of those rare performances that does not merely dominate a film, but defines an era of acting. Her Diana Christensen is ambition incarnate: ice-cold, ferociously intelligent, and utterly unencumbered by empathy. Dunaway doesn’t soften the character or seek audience approval; she weaponizes Diana’s ruthlessness, allowing her to move through the film with the predatory calm of someone who understands power not as responsibility, but as leverage. The performance is so precise and so unflinching that it almost feels inhuman, as though Diana has already evolved into the algorithmic logic the film warns us about—ratings as morality, attention as currency, and human cost as an acceptable casualty.

It is no accident that Dunaway earned the Academy Award for Best Actress for this role. The Oscar was not simply recognition of a great performance; it was an acknowledgment of something rarer—a character so vividly realized that she became a cultural archetype. Diana Christensen is not just a television executive; she is the prototype for the modern media operator, the spiritual ancestor of today’s content strategists, brand architects, and engagement-obsessed executives. Dunaway plays her with surgical control, her clipped delivery and laser-focused gaze conveying a woman who has replaced conscience with metrics long before such thinking became normalized.

In the broader context of film history, Dunaway’s work in Network cements her status as one of the greatest actresses of all time—very much in the lineage of Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, yet operating outside the classical Golden Age of Hollywood. Like them, Dunaway possessed an unapologetic intensity, a willingness to embrace unlikable women, and a commanding screen presence that bent films around her gravitational pull. But unlike Davis or Crawford, her era offered fewer guardrails and less mythmaking; Dunaway emerged during a transitional moment in American cinema, when performances could be raw, confrontational, and morally untidy.

That makes her Diana Christensen all the more extraordinary. It is not a performance cushioned by studio glamour or softened by melodrama—it is sharp, modern, and terrifyingly plausible. Decades later, Dunaway’s Oscar-winning turn feels less like a relic of 1970s cinema and more like a warning label we ignored.

The supporting cast—Beatrice Straight, Ned Beatty, Robert Duvall—forms a devastating chorus, each representing a different facet of institutional decay. Straight’s Oscar-winning performance, in particular, remains one of the most remarkable achievements in Academy history. The fact that Straight’s Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress was won with comparatively limited screen time only underscores the magnitude of her presence. Every line, every glance carries weight. Gravitas is not measured in minutes.

It is impossible to discuss Network without reckoning with its unprecedented—and now unthinkable—Oscar performance. The film received ten Academy Award nominations, including Best Picture, Best Director, and an astonishing four acting nominations across all performance categories. Even more remarkable: Network won three of the four acting awards—Peter Finch (Best Actor), Faye Dunaway (Best Actress), and Beatrice Straight (Best Supporting Actress)—with Finch’s win occurring posthumously. That trifecta remains a singular achievement in Oscar history.

What makes this feat so haunting in retrospect is not merely its rarity, but what it represents: a time when the Academy rewarded performance-driven cinema rooted in language, ideas, and moral urgency. These were not roles engineered for “Oscar moments” clipped for social media circulation. They were fully realized characters inhabiting a screenplay that demanded intelligence, restraint, and theatrical rigor. Even Beatrice Straight’s win—earned with fewer than six minutes of screen time—speaks to an era when gravitas mattered more than exposure, and emotional truth outweighed narrative gymnastics.

Contrast that with the modern awards landscape, where performances are often subsumed by brand visibility, platform allegiance, and campaign machinery. Today’s Oscars frequently feel less like a celebration of cinema than a referendum on cultural relevance as defined by streaming metrics and algorithmic reach. In that context, Network’s acting sweep feels not merely impressive, but elegiac—another artifact from a period when cinema trusted adults to speak, listen, and think.

This is where Network dovetails uncomfortably with my broader reflections on the erosion of cinematic prestige and journalistic integrity. The film arrived at a moment when studios still believed movies could challenge audiences, when networks still pretended journalism was a public service, and when awards bodies still recognized craft over content. That ecosystem no longer exists.

Today, companies like Netflix and Disney—titans of scale and convenience—have played outsized roles in flattening the cultural landscape. Netflix’s content-first philosophy has blurred the line between cinema and disposable product, prioritizing volume over vision and treating storytelling as a data problem to be optimized rather than an art form to be refined. Disney, meanwhile, has transformed legacy filmmaking into brand maintenance, where risk is minimized, mythmaking is franchised, and even news-adjacent programming is filtered through spectacle and marketability.

In that environment, Network feels almost confrontational. It reminds us that journalism once aspired to truth rather than virality, that cinema once valued language over noise, and that performances once carried weight beyond their runtime. The film’s Oscar dominance is not simply a historical footnote—it is a marker of how far the industry has drifted from rewarding seriousness, substance, and moral clarity.

Ultimately, Network foresaw where we were headed with terrifying clarity. But perhaps its greatest sorrow is that it did not imagine how eagerly we would embrace that future. Our media landscape has not merely changed; it has lost its soul. Journalism has become performance. Cinema has become content. And authenticity—once a virtue—has been repurposed as branding. Half a century later, Network stands as both benchmark and indictment. It is proof that cinema once mattered enough to scare the powerful—and a reminder that somewhere along the way, we stopped demanding that it do so.

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

WICKED: FOR GOOD movie musical review

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Some movies soar on broomsticks; this one never quite gets off the ground.

Wicked: For Good arrives with sky-high expectations, a beloved Broadway pedigree, and a cinematic world forever shaped by the 1939 Wizard of Oz. And while the heart for the material is undeniably present—director Jon M. Chu’s affection radiates through nearly every frame—the execution is fraught with problems that prevent the film from casting the spell it so eagerly attempts. It’s a movie overloaded with spectacle yet starved of narrative discipline, regrettably proving that sometimes a production can have all the right ingredients and still mix the potion incorrectly. There’s no question Jon M. Chu loves this material—his enthusiasm is evident. But passion alone isn’t enough. The film desperately needed stronger producing and organizational forces to ground the project, refine its pacing, and balance its emotional register. Instead, we get a production that feels at once over-managed and under-shaped.

Now demonized as the Wicked Witch of the West, Elphaba lives in exile in the Ozian forest, while Glinda resides at the palace in Emerald City, reveling in the perks of fame and popularity. As an angry mob rises against the Wicked Witch, she’ll need to reunite with Glinda to transform herself, and all of Oz, for good.

The most glaring issue in this movie is the pacing. This story never needed to be two movies. One Broadway show, one complete screen adaptation—simple math. Instead, Wicked and Wicked: For Good, collectively, feel like a single narrative forcibly stretched and compressed simultaneously. Scenes either end abruptly or linger with self-importance, giving the whole film a stop-and-start rhythm that betrays any emotional momentum. Moments that should breathe are suffocated, while others that should be tightened sprawl endlessly. Narratively, the film leans heavily on contrivances rather than character and plot development. Plot turns feel telegraphed or unearned, creating a sense that events are happening because the script demands it—not because the characters have earned the journey. Emotional beats are pushed rather than developed; the film tugs at heartstrings it hasn’t taken the time to weave. Many sequences feel manipulative instead of meaningful, leaving the viewer aware of the strings being pulled rather than swept up in the melody.

The film maintains the emotional equivalent of flooring the accelerator from beginning to end. Everything is heightened, everything is urgent, everything is presented at maximum volume. Without quieter resets, the story becomes exhausting rather than exhilarating. The lack of modulation leaves little room for nuance, making even potentially impactful moments blur together into one extended crescendo.

And then there’s the Oz problem itself–it was bad enough in the first movie, but this one amplifies all the flaws in this picture. From the opening Universal logo and Wicked title card, both stylized to resemble their 1930s counterparts, it’s clear the film wants to position itself adjacent to the classic Wizard of Oz. (And yes, I am aware that the Broadway show is based on books and not the 1939 classic, but this is a screen adaptation that is going to by default be connected spiritually and literally to the events, imagery, and characterizations of the original movie, but I digress). Whenever Wicked intersects with that iconic imagery, the visual and narrative disconnect is jarring. Tonally, textually, and aesthetically, nothing matches. Two of the most egregious examples are the Wicked Witch of the West’s castle, a location fundamentally misaligned with its 1939 counterpart in both history and design, and Glinda’s bubble. Hello??? She is clearly a magical being and travels by a magical bubble. To rob her of those elements is to rob her original characterization. For a film so eager to evoke some level of nostalgia, its disregard for consistency with cinema’s most beloved fantasy feels baffling.

The editing is among the film’s most distracting flaws—awkwardly timed transitions, uneven scene construction, and moments that feel spliced for convenience rather than cohesion. The cinematography dazzles with color and movement but contributes little to storytelling. It’s all flash, no narrative substance: beautiful images that ultimately amount to little more than digital confetti. And we cannot talk editing without addressing teh cringe CGI–the kind of digital spectacle that feels less like movie magic and more like a rough animatic accidentally exported at full resolution. Emerald City looks less like a tangible place and more like a high-end screensaver—everything polished to a rubbery sheen, with no texture, grit, or atmospheric depth. Characters often appear detached from their surroundings, as if composited into a digital diorama rather than inhabiting a lived-in world. Instead of mixing practical sets with digital enhancements, the film leans heavily on full-CG environments and even characters, resulting in octane-fueled and intimate moments feeling artificial. It’s like looking upon a world of fantasy that feels more like a giant animated backdrop with actors placed within versus a world that feels tangible.

Not even the presence of Michelle Yeoh is enough to elevate the film’s sense of class or gravitas. Although, it’s hard to blame her, given that she’s phoning in a performance built on scraps of narrative substance. In this second installment, her character is little more than an ornament of prestige, offering neither meaningful development nor any real impact on the story. Jeff Goldblum, likewise, delivers a surprisingly muted turn, coasting on his trademark charisma without ever fully engaging. When two performers known for commanding the screen seem this disengaged, it speaks less to their abilities and more to a film that gives them virtually nothing with which to work.

Wicked: For Good reaches for greatness but ultimately fails to stick the landing. It’s a film overflowing with heart yet undercut by structural missteps, contrived plotting, mismatched continuity, and a visual approach that prizes spectacle over substance. For a story about defying gravity, it’s ironic that this adaptation never quite lifts off the ground.

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

THE 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