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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

SEND HELP (2026) horror movie review

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Send Help is the rare survival thriller that understands the most dangerous thing on a deserted island isn’t nature—it’s the workplace baggage you bring with you.

Send Help plays like a postmodern riff on Misery—less interested in replicating its mechanics than in reconfiguring its psychological cruelty for a contemporary workplace horror. One can also detect traces of Survivor, the underseen Office Killer (1997), and even a one-way echo of Fatal Attraction, though Raimi’s film resists the lurid sensationalism of those predecessors in favor of something more controlled, more ideologically curious. I went into Send Help expecting one kind of movie and walked out having experienced something far more interesting—and far more satisfying. What initially presents itself as a straightforward survival thriller gradually reveals a different set of priorities: character over carnage, tension over spectacle, and psychology over shock. The turn is not a bait-and-switch so much as a recalibration, one that rewards patience and attention.

A woman (Rachel McAdams) and her overbearing boss (Dylan O’Brien) become stranded on a deserted island after a plane crash. They must overcome past grievances and work together to survive, but ultimately, it’s a battle of wills and wits to make it out alive.

Despite containing remarkably little gore, Send Help is punctuated by moments of excruciating intensity—scenes engineered to linger in the mind the way Misery’s hobbling scene does, not because of what is shown, but because of what is anticipated. Raimi understands that true discomfort is often born from restraint. Violence, when it arrives, is not gratuitous; it is precise, purposeful, and deeply unpleasant.

Where Send Help distinguishes itself most clearly is in its thematic ambition. Raimi trades his trademark splatter for commentary on workplace dynamics—particularly the lived experience of women navigating environments shaped by misogynistic men, institutional indifference, and power imbalance. The film proposes that monsters are created—that violent behavior can be traced back to environment, circumstance, and provocation. While the film makes this argument with conviction, I remain unconvinced by its absolutism. Environment can shape behavior, yes—but it does not absolve agency. Some monsters are forged by their surroundings; others choose monstrosity despite them. Under most circumstances, we remain responsible for our actions.

That tension—between explanation and excuse—is where Send Help becomes most interesting. The film is less persuasive as a moral thesis than it is as a provocation, forcing the audience to wrestle with where empathy ends and accountability begins. In that sense, the island setting becomes more than a survivalist conceit; it is a crucible. A demented Gilligan’s Island, stripped of whimsy and comfort, where rescue is uncertain and survival demands agency. The film is clear-eyed about one thing: help does not always arrive. Sometimes survival requires seizing control rather than waiting to be saved.

Visually, the setting is striking—lush, isolating, and quietly menacing. The CGI animals, however, are nearly laughable, though thankfully used sparingly enough not to derail the experience. When Raimi relies on atmosphere rather than digital intrusion, the film is at its strongest.

Excellent casting anchors the film, thoughtful writing gives the conflict weight, and the thrills feel refreshingly old-school—earned through escalation and dread rather than excess. All of it is quietly underscored by moments of dark comedy that arrive not as winks to the audience, but as pressure valves, reminding us that sometimes the most unsettling laughs are the ones that catch us off guard. McAdams’ and O’Brien’s chemistry is exceptional. They play off one another with a rhythmic precision that feels almost musical—each reaction, pause, and escalation perfectly calibrated. Their dynamic does much of the film’s heavy lifting, grounding the psychological tension in something human and volatile. One hopes this pairing is not a one-off; there is genuine electricity here worth revisiting.

There is also an unintended—but revealing—meta-text hovering around O’Brien’s presence. In a recent Entertainment Weekly article, O’Brien noted that he has been repeatedly told by agents, producers, and directors that he needs an Instagram account—that without it, he risks losing roles deemed “appropriate” for him. He has no intention of starting one. As a film scholar, I find this deeply troubling. When talent, suitability, and longevity are increasingly filtered through social media metrics rather than craft, presence, and screen intelligence, the industry risks confusing visibility with value. Send Help, perhaps inadvertently, becomes part of that conversation—raising questions about how we identify monsters, merit, and worth in systems increasingly governed by optics.

Ultimately, Send Help is not a perfect film, nor is it a subtle one. But it is a thoughtful, unsettling, and frequently compelling genre exercise—one that uses survival horror as a vehicle for interrogating power, agency, and responsibility. Raimi may be experimenting here, but the experiment is a worthwhile one. If nothing else, Send Help reminds us that the most terrifying scenarios are not those where monsters appear—but those where we are forced to decide what kind of people we are when no one is coming to save us.

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

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