Tag Archives: Movie Review

HEART OF THE BEAST motion picture review

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Exquisite, edge-of-your-seat survival thriller with genuine heart

Brad Pitt and a remarkable canine co-star take audiences deep into the Alaskan wilderness in Heart of the Beast, a survival picture that understands the most dangerous terrain is not always physical. The film immediately establishes a dual struggle: surviving a landscape that is as beautiful as it is deadly while confronting the psychological wreckage left by war. That distinction is what elevates Heart of the Beast beyond the familiar survival-thriller formula. Rather than relying solely on escalating encounters with the elements, the film makes physical and emotional survival inseparable. Every external threat places additional pressure on characters already carrying wounds that cannot be bandaged, and every setback forces them to confront whether endurance alone is enough.

Pitt plays James Belmont, a retired Green Beret traveling with Odin, his former combat dog. After a devastating plane crash leaves them stranded in the mountains, the two must rely upon their training—and each other—to survive.

Director David Ayer reunites with Pitt after Fury, but this is not the survival movie I expected. Having not been particularly fond of Fury, I approached this collaboration with cautious optimism. Needless to say, Heart of the Beast completely won me over. By the time the story reached its conclusion, I was moved to tears—not because of one isolated moment, but because the film gradually draws audiences into the emotional experience of its characters until we are no longer merely observing their struggle. We are participating in it.

The external objective is clear: escape the mountains and reach safety. Beneath that action, however, is a character-driven story about James and Odin living with the lingering effects of trauma. Unlike many films that treat post-traumatic stress as a dramatic gimmick or allow it to consume a character’s identity, Heart of the Beast lets trauma emerge organically through behavior, memory, instinct, and the bond these two share.

That restraint gives the film unusual emotional authenticity. James and Odin are affected by what happened to them, but they are not defined solely by it. The story quietly argues that trauma may influence memory, fear, and behavior, but it does not erase agency. We may not control what has happened to us or how certain memories return, but we can still control how we respond.

The result is a riveting, character-driven survival picture in which the question is never simply whether its leads will make it out of the wilderness alive. The deeper question is whether they can survive what they brought into the wilderness with them.

Explaining exactly how the story develops would venture too far into spoiler territory. Suffice it to say, Heart of the Beast delivers one surprise after another. It vividly embodies the expression “two steps forward, one step back”—although for James and Odin, it frequently becomes two steps forward and three, four, or five steps back.

Pitt and his canine co-star, Uber, deliver compelling performances. When James and Odin hurt, we hurt. When they become frightened, we share their fear. Although James is a retired Green Beret, the screenplay never transforms him into an invincible action hero. He is highly trained, resourceful, resilient, and strong, but he is also vulnerable, fallible, and recognizably human. Odin is equally well developed. Anyone who has loved a dog—or another animal companion—will recognize something of their own relationship in the trust between these two characters. Uber communicates fear, loyalty, pain, and determination with extraordinary clarity, often without the film needing to underline what we are meant to feel.

The cinematography does not attempt anything particularly novel, but it captures the beauty and hostility of the Alaskan wilderness exceptionally well. The landscapes are breathtaking yet inhospitable, beautiful enough to inspire awe and cold enough to send a chill down your spine.

In lesser survival films, landscape photography can become a substitute for dramatic substance, allowing striking imagery to compensate for thin characters or a mediocre story. Not so here. The compositions and camera movements emphasize both the grandeur and hostility of the wilderness without allowing the environment to overshadow James and Odin. The mountains remain formidable, but they never become more important than the people trying to survive them.

The musical score operates with similar restraint. Beautifully composed and emotionally expressive, it provides an additional current beneath the drama without demanding attention for itself. Like the cinematography, the music serves the characters and story rather than competing with them. It feels less like accompaniment than an extension of the emotional life already present on screen.

Cameron Alexander’s tightly constructed screenplay deserves particular praise. Survival films frequently protract their ordeals, but Heart of the Beast runs under an hour and forty-five minutes, and very little of that time feels wasted. The pacing is excellent: the story never drags, yet it never feels as though it is sprinting toward its conclusion. Alexander appears to understand one of the most valuable principles of economical screenwriting: enter a scene as late as possible and leave it as soon as its dramatic purpose has been fulfilled. Nearly every scene advances character, conflict, or consequence, and each sequence points naturally toward the third act and resolution.

It is also a compelling example of the benefits of separating the writer and director roles. Ayer can concentrate on performance, atmosphere, visual storytelling, and execution, while Alexander provides the dramatic architecture beneath those choices. Their collaboration demonstrates what can happen when distinct creative disciplines complement rather than compete with one another.

As we approach the final quarter of the year and begin considering the best films of 2026, Heart of the Beast is firmly on track to make my list. It is a reminder that some of the most affecting motion pictures are those that reveal the best people can be—to one another, to the animals who depend upon us, and to ourselves—even when the world seems to be collapsing around us.

At a time when so much contemporary storytelling gravitates toward cynicism, there is something refreshing about a film that treats resilience, loyalty, compassion, and perseverance without embarrassment. More motion pictures should aspire to leave audiences feeling that the human experience, difficult as it may be, is still worth fighting for.

Heart of the Beast is equal parts exhilarating and heartwarming, delivering an emotional payoff that may send you rushing home to embrace the furry companion waiting for you. I certainly hugged my dog, Fizzgig, as soon as I returned from the cinema.

Although I am not entirely convinced a Shih Tzu would fare especially well in the Alaskan wilderness. Then again, he is a “lion dog.”

Ryan is the morning host on WLRH Public Radio in Huntsville, AL and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can enjoy the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” He also teaches film studies at the University of Alabama in Huntsville. Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. Prior to public broadcasting, he taught film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa. 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

COYOTE vs ACME movie review

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Simply delightful!

Coyote vs. Acme follows Wile E. after one defective Acme product too many. Tired of being crushed, blown up, launched from cliffs, and otherwise betrayed by the company’s inventions, he hires struggling attorney Kevin Avery—played by Will Forte—and takes the Acme Corporation to court. It’s like Who Framed Roger Rabbit meets Erin Brockovich in a live-action and animated comedy wrapped around a thoughtful David-versus-Goliath story.

The plotting is solid, the characters possess surprising complexity, and the filmmakers pack the movie with Easter eggs and affectionate nods to the Looney Tunes legacy. There is even a clever touch before the story begins. Beneath the Warner Bros. logo appears an asterisk identifying the studio as “a wholly owned subsidiary of the Acme Corporation”—meaning the movie is ostensibly being released by its own villains.

The animated characters remain wonderfully expressive without needing dialogue. Wile E. Coyote can communicate a lifetime of hunger and frustration with a single glower. The Road Runner celebrates another narrow escape with the familiar—and apparently infuriating—“beep, beep.” The integration of animation and live action is not quite as convincing as it was in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. That film’s combination of celluloid photography and hand-drawn animation gave its characters a remarkable physical presence within the human world. The digital tools used here cannot entirely recreate that tactile magic.

But Coyote vs. Acme compensates with its warmth, wit, and understanding of these characters.

Like Roger Rabbit and Chip ’n Dale: Rescue Rangers, the film uses lovable cartoon figures to soften the darkness of a crime story. But instead of a jaded detective or washed-up celebrity, Kevin is a perennial loser who has always been too afraid to try.

Facing Acme’s wealthy, polished, and bullying legal team—led by John Cena’s Buddy Crane—it is easy to understand that fear. Watching Kevin find courage alongside a motley collection of screwups and goofballs is genuinely heartwarming. The movie also recognizes that there is nothing fantastical about the odds in a corporate David-versus-Goliath fight. Wile E. is not even granted a true jury of his peers. Only two of the twelve jurors are animated—and one of them is a silly goose.

After Warner Bros. originally shelved the completed film, its eventual theatrical release makes that theme especially resonant. The movie itself became an underdog battling a powerful corporation for the right to exist.

Audiences should have a wonderful time laughing together in the cinema. Coyote vs. Acme honors the Looney Tunes while reminding us that courage does not require wealth, polish, or privilege.

Sometimes all we have are our fellow screwups and goofballs. And together, we can still become our own warriors—whatever the rich, the powerful, and the “I say, I say, I say” privileged throw our way.

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

INSIDIOUS: OUT OF THE FURTHER horror movie review

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Should’ve Left the Red Door Locked

The newest installment in the Insidious franchise is a reminder that atmosphere, mythology, and strong individual ideas are only the ingredients of a motion picture—not the motion picture itself. Jacob Chase clearly has several intriguing concepts at work: a story rooted in grief, characters shaped by trauma, supernatural elements designed to expand the mythology of the franchise, and the return of horror icon Lin Shaye. Yet those ideas rarely connect into a cohesive dramatic experience. Instead, the film often feels like a collection of scenes and sequences searching for the narrative that will bind them together.

Insidious: Out of the Further introduces Gemma, a young mother who discovers she possesses the ability to enter the Further—the purgatorial realm of lost souls established throughout the franchise. However, Gemma’s ability comes with a dangerous consequence: she can bring the entities she encounters back into our world.

The simplest description of the film may be Insidious meets Poltergeist, with a little A Nightmare on Elm Street mixed in for good measure. Chase clearly understands the lineage of these films and the horror traditions from which they emerged. There is an appreciation for the genre’s history and an attempt to build upon familiar ideas. Unfortunately, the film’s vision would have benefited from a stronger screenplay—one capable of shaping those influences into a more dramatically compelling narrative.

Horror has always been a genre where atmosphere can compensate for many shortcomings. A haunting location, unsettling sound design, frightening imagery, or a memorable performance can carry an audience through imperfect storytelling. But atmosphere cannot replace character development, and franchise recognition cannot substitute for emotional stakes. Even the presence of Lin Shaye—whose portrayal of Elise Rainier has become one of the defining elements of the Insidious universe—cannot overcome material that struggles to transform its concepts into meaningful drama.

The result is a film containing many of the elements audiences expect from an Insidious installment, but without the dramatic foundation necessary to make those elements resonate. There is simultaneously too much happening and not enough meaningful material to sustain the film’s 105-minute runtime. The story introduces several promising concepts but rarely develops them beyond their initial premise.

At the center of the problem is the screenplay. Allowing the Further’s entities to cross into the physical world is an intriguing expansion of the franchise mythology, but the film never fully explores the possibilities created by that idea. Instead, it becomes another extended attempt to escape the supernatural dangers lurking beyond the red door.

That weakness extends to the characters as well. Outside of Gemma, her daughter Maya, and returning paranormal investigator Elise Rainier, several principal characters function almost like non-player characters in a video game. They appear when the protagonist needs assistance completing a specific task, but they possess little independent dramatic identity or purpose.

What ultimately saves the movie—and makes it watchable—is Lin Shaye.

Shaye remains the heart of this franchise, bringing warmth, credibility, and humanity to its supernatural mythology. Unfortunately, she is given surprisingly little to do. Her presence occasionally feels less like an essential component of the story and more like an acknowledgment that longtime fans expect Elise Rainier to be present.

Atmospherically, however, the film succeeds. The Further remains an effective nightmare landscape, populated by disturbing entities that longtime fans will immediately recognize. In fact, the world created here feels almost perfectly suited for a Halloween Horror Nights attraction—perhaps even a stronger haunted house than a feature film.

The scares themselves are competently staged, although many of the strongest moments appear to have been revealed in the marketing. I generally avoid trailers, but even the limited footage I encountered made several major scare sequences feel familiar before they arrived.

Insidious: Out of the Further contains numerous individually effective ideas, memorable imagery, and another welcome appearance by Lin Shaye. What it lacks is the dramatic structure necessary to connect those elements into a satisfying whole.

It is another example of a fundamental truth about filmmaking: a director’s vision requires a screenplay capable of refining, organizing, and transforming that vision into a complete story. Without that collaboration, even promising concepts risk becoming little more than a stream of ideas.

Fans of the franchise may enjoy another atmospheric journey into the Further. Everyone else can wait until this door opens on streaming.

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

MINIONS & MONSTERS

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Understands that movie magic isn’t merely that which you watch—it’s something you feel.

Some movies entertain us. Others remind us of why we fell in love with movies int he first place–Minions & Monsters is the latter. The Minions franchise has always revolved around a simple premise: these delightfully chaotic yellow creatures are forever searching for the next great master to serve. It is a formula that has produced plenty of laughs over the years, but Minions & Monsters wisely recognizes that every successful franchise eventually reaches a point where it must grow beyond its original concept. This film does exactly that.

Rather than centering its story on finding another larger-than-life villain, Minions & Monsters becomes something far more personal. It is about loving something so deeply that it becomes an extension of who you are. In this case, that something is the movies themselves.

Following the Minions through the history of Hollywood, the film functions simultaneously as a celebration of cinema, a playful history lesson, and a heartfelt story about pursuing dreams despite setbacks. Along the way, audiences are reminded of an era when movies were events rather than simply another form of “content” competing for our attention.

The filmmakers understand that cinema has always been more than projected images on a screen. Movies preserve dreams. They inspire careers. They connect generations. They remind us that imagination has value.

That affection radiates from nearly every frame.

The film’s greatest strength is its sincerity. It never treats its love of Hollywood as irony or nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. Instead, it celebrates the people who built the industry and the enduring magic of storytelling itself. Watching the Minions stumble through different periods of filmmaking becomes less a parade of references and more a reminder of why the medium has endured for more than a century.

There is also an unmistakably classical quality to the storytelling. The narrative is clean, purposeful, and emotionally satisfying. Rather than chasing endless subplots or frantic spectacle, the film remains focused on its characters and their journey. It understands a lesson that many contemporary blockbusters have forgotten: audiences become invested in stories because they care about the people experiencing them.

Perhaps that is why Minions & Monsters feels so refreshing.

It channels the optimism and emotional earnestness of the great Hollywood studio era. One can almost imagine producers like Darryl F. Zanuck or David O. Selznick smiling at the film’s belief that stories—and the people who tell them—matter. More importantly, the movie reminds us that cinema is not merely something we watch. It is something we feel.

That is a surprisingly profound message for an animated comedy featuring yellow, gibberish-speaking creatures. Yet somehow, it works.

Minions & Monsters is highly entertaining, frequently funny, and filled with genuine heart. More than that, it serves as a joyful celebration of the movies themselves—a reminder that behind every projector beam lies the possibility of wonder. And in an era when so much of the entertainment industry speaks of algorithms, franchises, and content, that’s a message well worth celebrating.

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

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