Tag Archives: Movie Review

PREDATOR: BADLANDS movie review

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Predator: Let’s Play. When streaming content hits the big screen.

Predator: Badlands is the equivalent of a “Let’s Play,” but with bigger explosions. The nonstop action, constant motion offer little to no substantive emotional investment. You’re an observer, not a participant—which might be fine for streaming, but it’s a strange fit for cinema. The latest in the Predator franchise plays like a two-hour sizzle reel with delusions of grandeur. It’s a glossy barrage of explosions, digital dust, and quippy one-liners that evaporate before they even hit the floor. By the time the credits roll–that’s if you haven’t fallen asleep—you’ve seen everything and felt nothing. It’s not that the film is aggressively bad—it’s that it’s aggressively empty–little more than content to pander to short attention spans with shiny movement instead of meaningful momentum.

Cast out from its clan, a Predator and an unlikely synthetic ally embark on a treacherous journey in search of the ultimate adversary.

The screenplay feels like it was written by an algorithm trained on reaction videos and Reddit threads. Every line of dialogue sounds like a placeholder; it’s as if someone said, “We’ll fix it later” or “funny line here,” and neglected to return to the page in order to fix it–before principle photography. There’s no sense of escalation, tension, or rhythm; it’s a series of flashy moments loosely stitched together, like a highlight reel of a game you didn’t play. Even the humor feels synthetic–much like the characters– punching at air instead of connecting with character or tone.

As for the characters, they exist mostly as camera targets. They are little more than digital avatars running, shooting, and shouting for reasons that never feel personal or compelling. The lead could be replaced by a different actor mid-film and you might not notice. This critic isn’t even convinced that Dek (our central Predator character) wasn’t entirely CGI, though it may have only been the facial area. “What’s my motivation?” Difficult to say–there wasn’t much upon which to build. Motivations are paper-thin, arcs nonexistent. The Predator itself, once a symbol of primal fear and unseen menace, now feels like a boss-level NPC waiting to be triggered by the next quick-time event.

Visually, Badlands has all the spectacle money can buy; but its spectacle is divorced from any meaningful purpose. The explosions are massive, the sound mix thunderous, and yet it’s as emotionally engaging as watching someone else play Call of Duty. Every frame screams “look at me!” without ever inviting you to feel something. The editing, too, is manic. And it’s not even as though the narrative demanded it; rather, the dynamic editing was most likely employed because the movie was terrified that you’d look away or down at your watch, which I did several times.

And maybe that’s the point. Predator: Badlands is far less like a movie and more like a cinematic exercise in a large scale “Let’s Play.” For those that are unfamiliar with the term, it’s a type of (usually) YouTube video of someone playing a video game and often their reactions to the game play. Think of it as a passive experience of someone else’s thrill ride. The ultimate, disconnected form of living vicariously. Don’t question anything, because it won’t take long to realize that this movie is hollow. You don’t engage; you just witness. The irony is that the film could’ve been a fascinating critique of screen-mediated experiences, but it never once stops to think.

This is just the latest in a growing trend from Disney’s genre arm: a reliance on brand nostalgia and visual polish in place of storytelling. Ever since the corporate appetite turned to IP recycling, the studio has mistaken familiarity for depth. Badlands is what happens when you try to “optimize engagement” instead of crafting a narrative, resulting in the film equivalent of clickbait dressed in billion-dollar armor.

Predator: Badlands doesn’t so much hunt its audience as it does chase its own tail. A movie that is fast, flashy, and utterly pointless; and desperately wants to go viral but forgets to be cinema. You don’t leave exhilarated; you leave wondering if you accidentally spent $15 to watch a YouTube compilation in IMAX.

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

SHELBY OAKS horror movie review

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A cautionary tale of when YouTubers confuse content with cinema.

Chris Stuckmann’s Shelby Oaks arrives with all the makings of a breakthrough: (1) it’s one of the most successful Kickstarter-funded indie films ever, and (2) it’s directed by one of YouTube’s most popular influencer-critics. In fact, I’ve used some of his videos in my own classroom—good material: informative, engaging, and accessible for budding cinephiles. But therein lies the rub: informative and engaging does not a motion picture make. The premise, though, is undeniably intriguing—a reimagining of familiar horror tropes with contemporary urgency. Stuckmann delivers a film that has the bones of something potent—think The Blair Witch Project meets Rosemary’s Baby: paranoia, obsession, and the horror of the unseen, all wrapped in a missing-person mystery and topped with a bow of supernatural dread.

Shelby Oaks is about Mia’s search for her long-lost sister and paranormal investigator Riley becomes an obsession when she realizes an event from her past may have opened the door to something far more sinister than she could have ever imagined.

Like many contemporary filmmakers–particularly those that got their start on YouTube–Shelby Oaks excels in technical achievement and marketing. The cinematography is confident and atmospheric, drenched in moody lighting that evokes gothic horror. There is little doubt that Stuckmann clearly understands shot composition, pacing within the frame, even editing in-camera and the importance of visual tone. All the technical elements are quite impressive for a debut feature. And if all a motion picture was–was the visual elements–it’d be easy to admire. But it isn’t. Even Hitchcock knew that. Which is why Hitch never wrote his own screenplays–he generated the idea, even outlined entire scenes and sequences–but he knew that he needed to work with a screenwriter, that understood the material, in order to fully realize his movie idea for the screen. What is greatly lacking in contemporary cinema is an understanding of what makes a great story–plot structure, mechanics, and the emotional substructure.

But Shelby Oaks falters where too many YouTube-born filmmakers stumble—storytelling. Shelby Oaks has a great idea for a movie, but not a fully realized narrative. At its core, the narrative never builds sufficient momentum. Why? Simple–because there’s no real opposition. “Evil,” in the abstract, isn’t conflict. Opposition must manifest into something tangible between the character and his or her external goal, whether that’s a person, a system, or her own inner demons. For all the supernatural activity in the film, there never truly emerges a character of opposition. The result is a macabre mystery that depicts scenes and sequences wherein Mia’s pursuit unfolds, but without the benefit of a tangible sense of escalation or even revelation. Shelby Oaks is more of a proof of concept rather than a complete story.

Stuckmann, for all his film knowledge, seems more comfortable replicating tone and texture than constructing narrative architecture. His background in reviewing movies gives him an eye for what looks right—but not yet the discipline to shape what feels right. He understands what sells, what gets views, and even genre conventions. But sadly, none of the characters, including Mia, possess real dimension or agency. She and the rest of the characters are vehicles for mood rather than emotional engagement.

What works on YouTube—enthusiasm, charisma, and technical dissection—doesn’t automatically translate to cinema. His channel reveals a deep love of horror and a commendable understanding of its visual language, yet Shelby Oaks exposes the gap between appreciating a genre and authoring it. The film lacks what isn’t needed in (and can even get in the way of) YouTube content: storytelling mechanics, structure, and the discipline of narrative design. It’s one thing to analyze story beats; it’s another to build them, to shape character arcs, rhythm, and tension through the grammar of storytelling rather than the syntax of spectacle. Often, YouTube videos have great hooks, but they lack the narrative substance behind the hook.

What’s most frustrating is how close Shelby Oaks comes to working. The concept is rich, and the craftsmanship is undeniably strong. Stuckmann clearly loves cinema, and there’s passion behind every frame. But cinema isn’t content creation—it’s storytelling. And storytelling requires more than aesthetic confidence; it demands structure, development, and resolution.

The YouTube garden is flourishing with emerging directors, cinematographers, and editors—talented creators who’ve mastered the language of cameras, lighting, and cutting for attention. But what it’s not producing are writers. The art—and science—of writing seems to be withering in the age of influencer cinema. Many creators know how to make something look good but not why it should matter. Storytelling requires patience, discipline, and a willingness to think beyond the thumbnail and algorithm. In a culture where speed and spectacle drive engagement, screenwriting—the slow, deliberate architecture of character, conflict, and change—feels almost antiquated. And yet, it remains the soul of cinema. Without writers, we get films that resemble content: sleek, competent, and hollow.

Shelby Oaks stands as a cautionary tale of when YouTubers confuse content with cinema. Furthermore, this movie is an example of the hollowness of contemporary cinema, how cinema is feeling more and more disposable as the months and years pass the silver screen. The tools are there, the ambition is there, but without mastery of story, all that remains are haunting images in search of a heartbeat.

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

BLACK PHONE 2 horror movie review

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WEAPONS horror movie review

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Sleek, stylish, and appears razor-honed, but needs a little sharpening. Zach Cregger’s Weapons takes audiences on a visually arresting and emotionally charged journey that blends suspense, terror, and moments of surrealism. While the film excels in crafting atmosphere through its immersive sound design, haunting imagery, and striking cinematography, its story ultimately collapses under the weight of overwriting and structural ambition. Despite moments of genuine tension and intrigue, the story struggles to cohere into something emotionally resonant or thematically satisfying. In the end, Weapons proves to be more refined in aesthetic than in substance—an experience-driven work that favors tone over storytelling.

When all but one child from the same classroom mysteriously vanish on the same night at exactly the same time, a community is left questioning who or what is behind their disappearance.

Weapons positions itself as a psychological horror anthology-adjacent film that aspires to echo the structural ambition of Trick ‘r Treat and the dread-soaked atmosphere of Hereditary. Each composition is meticulously crafted, echoing the influences of Ari Aster, David Lynch, and Paul Thomas Anderson. The film’s immersive sound design, scored with unnerving precision, deepens the psychological tension, ensuring that audiences feel trapped within the same spiraling unease as its characters. Cregger, best known for the unexpected 2022 breakout Barbarian, attempts something far more sprawling here: a multi-threaded, nonlinear horror tapestry that spans time, location, and character perspectives. On paper, the structure is bold and ambitious. But unlike Barbarian, which grounded its twists in a tightly wound narrative, Weapons ultimately feels thematically scattered and emotionally distant. Characters arrive with weight, but rarely evolve; connections are drawn, but their meaning feels underdeveloped.

What Weapons does exceptionally well is craft an experience. Cregger’s talent for generating sustained suspense, is elevated here to a more mature and stylized level. The tonal consistency, even across multiple timelines and narrative threads, is admirable. Individual sequences build atmosphere masterfully, utilizing silence and suggestion as effectively as sudden, jarring visuals. The sound design alone is enough to make your skin crawl—unsettling, precise, and deeply immersive. The cinematography delivers an unnerving blend of realism and the uncanny, grounding even the most supernatural or surreal moments in believable textures and light.

Weapons boasts an outstanding performative dimension. Each of the lead and key supporting actors deliver performances that are uniformly committed, standing out for their subtle, tortured portrayals of people unraveling in the wake of the trauma of the kids vanishing. After the mostly disappointing Wolf Man earlier this year, I was curious to see if this film would be the vehicle needed for Julia Garner (until the Madonna bio pic that’s calling her name) to showcase her acting chops. The performative quality we witnessed of her in Ozark is what we have in Weapons. Josh Brolin offers stoic gravitas, while Austin Abrams adds a jittery, unpredictable energy. And then there’s Cary Christopher’s unsettling Alex, complete with enough creepy kid energy to fill a whole classroom. Collectively, their efforts lend some gravitas and humanity to a film that often prioritizes vision over narrative.

Without getting in to spoilers, the film takes a turn midway through the second act that completely shifts the experience and even the tone of the picture. One might say that the movie sets up one mystery and eventual payoff, but then deviates onto a different (and ultimately more predictable) path. Once that (unfortunately too obvious) reveal is made midway through the investigation into the disappearance of the classroom of kids–save one (Alex)–then it becomes quite the twisted fairytale. But therein likes one of the most significant problems I have with the film–because of this twist, there are questions that emerge for which we will not be provided answers. We can certainly draw conclusions, that are most likely correct, but this isn’t the type of picture that should require that level of guesswork. When that twist is revealed, explanations of reasons for the motivation and consequences, should the plan fair, are not sufficiently clear.

Horror thrives in that liminal space between order and chaos, but Weapons leans too heavily into the latter. Instead of meticulously peeling back layers to reveal a deeper truth, it obscures character arcs and emotional payoffs beneath narrative experimentation. In striving to be a psychological puzzle-box, the film forgets to provide the audience with enough meaningful pieces to solve it. As a result, Weapons leaves audiences with questions that the film should have answered because it clearly desires to be a genre horror film–it’s not Memento. However, the climax of the picture, while somewhat predictable, is none-the-less satisfyingly bold.

In the end, Weapons is a film that demands attention but struggles to justify its complexities. It will certainly appeal to fans of the prestige horror aesthetic, but despite the converging narratives it never quite hits the mark of a film that invites multiple viewings in order to fully appreciate the story and the apparatus thereof. But for general audiences, or those seeking a tightly woven narrative, the film’s impact may feel more like a glancing blow than a direct hit. Visually stunning and rich in atmosphere, Weapons captivates the senses but lacks the narrative clarity and cohesion to land its thematic strikes. A bold motion picture outing, it’s a film that’s more experience than story—one that feels sharpened in presentation but blunted in meaning.

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

DANGEROUS ANIMALS (2025) horror movie mini review

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Sufficiently fun. Dangerous Animals is the kind of horror movie that is sufficiently fun and entertaining once, but not a movie that commands a rewatch. The premise is fantastic: a serial killer that kidnaps young tourists (usually young women) and feeds them to sharks as he uses a old VHS camcorder to capture the victim’s demise. Dangerous Animals takes inspiration from other movies such as Shark Night (2011), Cabin by the Lake. and even The Silence of the Lambs. Between truncated first and third acts, is a protracted second act that foils any suspense, tension, or proper pacing setup in the first act. Performatively, the film is quite good; had it not been for the compelling and entertaining performances, the movie would’ve fallen quite flat for me. Like with many indie films, the cinematography and editing outclass the screenwriting. The evidence of thoughtful directing is there, but its potential is hampered by the poorly paced and structured screenplay. This feels like a short film idea that was augmented to fit a feature length runtime. Without giving it away, there is a particular scene about a third of the way through the movie that is straight-up an homage to an iconic scene from Silence of the Lambs, which I really appreciated. Releasing on the 6th of June, if you enjoy shark and/or horror movies, then its worth checking out. But like I said, for me, as sufficiently entertaining as it was, it isn’t one that I am going to rewatch anytime soon.

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