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WILDWOOD movie review

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A mesmerizing triumph of stop-motion animation whose craftsmanship ultimately exceeds its storytelling

Wildwood is a triumph of animation. Its mesmerizing stop-motion draws audiences into a cinematic adventure that is equal parts beautiful and terrifying, pushing the art and craft of animation to extraordinary new heights in scale and scope.

Nearly every frame inspires awe.

Yet for everything Wildwood accomplishes—and it accomplishes a great deal—Kubo and the Two Strings still tells the better story.

Based on the novel by Colin Meloy and illustrated by Carson Ellis, Wildwood follows Prue McKeel, a young girl whose baby brother is taken into the Impassable Wilderness outside Portland. Determined to rescue him, Prue enters a hidden world inhabited by talking animals, mystics, soldiers, and competing political factions. Alongside her classmate Curtis, she discovers that the wilderness is not merely magical but divided—and that her connection to it may be far more consequential than she imagined.

The result is an astounding achievement in stop-motion animation that transports viewers from their theater seats into a world of magic, nightmares, and discovery. The expansive setting benefits from the sixteen years of heart and soul poured into the production. Not since LAIKA’s Kubo and the Two Strings has the studio delivered such an exquisitely crafted motion picture.

I have said it before, and I will say it again: nothing can replace the way real light strikes real objects and travels into a camera lens.

That physical interaction gives stop-motion a quality computer-generated animation cannot fully reproduce. The world and characters of Wildwood feel tangible because they are tangible. These figures occupied physical space. Artists built their clothing, shaped their faces, positioned their limbs, illuminated their environments, and moved them one painstaking increment at a time.

CGI has nothing on witnessing the hand of the artist.

Like Kubo, Wildwood represents an ideal relationship between artists and engineers. Its handcrafted charm exists in harmony with sophisticated cameras, lighting systems, fabrication technologies, and visual-effects tools. Technology supports the artistry rather than replacing it. The result is not merely animation but cinematic art: hundreds of artists and craftspeople collectively breathing life into objects that otherwise could not move.

If stop-motion pioneer Ray Harryhausen could see what LAIKA has created here, I suspect he would congratulate its artists for taking the form he helped popularize and pushing it beyond anything achievable during his lifetime. They have surpassed the master technologically, but the soul of Harryhausen’s work remains present in every frame. The tiny irregularities, textures, shadows, and tactile movements do not diminish the illusion of life. They create it.

(In the defense of CGI, however, there was a minimal amount used to fill in “gaps” that were otherwise highly impractical or nearly impossible to achieve with stop-motion alone.)

Prue’s journey is fundamentally about growing up and reconciling the past with what she is learning about herself. She believes she has put away those things associated with childhood, only to discover that some needs remain with us as we enter adulthood. Imagination, wonder, courage, and our desire to believe in something beyond ourselves do not have to disappear simply because we grow older.

Perhaps adulthood should always leave a little room for magic.

Prue also learns that actions have consequences—both good and bad. Good intentions cannot prevent mistakes, and failure does not absolve us of responsibility. When we fall, we must acknowledge what happened, rise again, and decide what to do next.

Although Prue is the central character, Curtis is in many respects the heart of the story. He represents the idea that growing older does not require abandoning imagination, magic, or optimism. His enthusiasm initially appears naïve beside Prue’s skepticism, but the movie gradually reveals it as a source of strength.

Curtis also undergoes the more pronounced transformation. He begins as timid, shy, and uncertain, yet ultimately demonstrates extraordinary bravery. Much of the film’s humor comes through him, but he never exists merely as comic relief. His humor, vulnerability, and courage make him an essential emotional counterweight to Prue.

The film correctly advertises itself as a dark fantasy. It channels the qualities that made so many dark fantasies of the 1980s provocative, frightening, and beautiful. At times, it feels as though Wildwood has absorbed elements of Labyrinth, The Dark Crystal, and The NeverEnding Story and filtered them through LAIKA’s singular visual language.

Its clearest parallel with Labyrinth is the abduction of Prue’s baby brother and the heroine’s journey into a fantastical realm to bring him home. Wildwood ultimately delivers a more compelling narrative than Labyrinth, although its story is neither as thoughtful nor as dramatically satisfying as those of The Dark Crystal or The NeverEnding Story.

Where Wildwood becomes nearly indescribable is in its final battle.

Words cannot adequately capture the magnificence of that extended series of sequences. The scale evokes the great battles of The Lord of the Rings, while the astonishing level of detail makes each movement, figure, and environmental element worthy of individual study. More remarkably, the animation captures the horror of war with an intensity I have seldom encountered in the medium.

It is thrilling without making combat feel inconsequential. The spectacle never entirely erases the terror.

By most measurable standards, Wildwood is nearly peerless in the art and science of animation. The creatures, costumes, sets, lighting, cinematography, and physical scale represent a staggering achievement.

Unfortunately, the story does not appear to have received the same degree of care.

Although the movie is adapted from a novel, one senses that significant connective tissue remains somewhere on the page. I have not read the source material, so this can only be inferred from the adaptation itself. The cinematic narrative contains compelling ideas and memorable individual passages, but some developments lack the clarity, emotional foundation, or dramatic progression required to make them completely satisfying.

A closer reading also reveals an ideological division within its fantasy world. Whether consciously or unconsciously, the Governor and Dowager Governess can be interpreted as representatives of Western ideals, while the mystics and ancients embody ideas more closely associated with the East. It therefore comes as little surprise when the narrative dismantles one system in favor of the other.

That interpretation introduces provocative material, but the film does not examine the competing philosophies with enough depth or balance to transform them into a fully persuasive thematic argument. Like several other narrative elements, the idea is present without being developed as thoroughly as the physical world surrounding it.

This imbalance separates Wildwood from Kubo and the Two Strings.

Kubo combined exquisite animation with a simple, intimate, and emotionally profound story about memory, loss, family, and storytelling itself. Its images were not merely beautiful; they served a narrative of comparable beauty. Wildwood may surpass Kubo in technical scope, but it does not equal the earlier film’s dramatic precision or emotional clarity.

Nevertheless, Wildwood remains an extraordinary cinematic experience.

At a moment when studios increasingly treat animation as information generated inside a computer, LAIKA reminds us that animation can still bear the fingerprints of its creators. It can possess weight, texture, imperfection, and evidence of human labor. We can witness the passion in every movement, detail, creature, and landscape.

The film returns us from the business of manufacturing content to the art of making motion pictures.

If Wildwood succeeds at the box office, perhaps it will demonstrate to studios and distributors that audiences still want practical effects, puppetry, miniatures, and stop-motion animation. Perhaps viewers have not lost their appetite for work that is tactile, patient, and unmistakably handmade.

Wildwood does not tell a story equal to the magnificence of its construction. But that construction is so astonishing—and the world it creates so beautiful, frightening, and alive—that the film demands to be experienced on the largest screen possible.

It is a monument to the artists who touched every puppet, constructed every set, manipulated every expression, and transformed still objects into living characters.

The hand of the artist is visible throughout Wildwood. And that hand creates magic.

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

OTHER MOMMY and STREET FIGHTER reviews

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Combining reviews because its still more time than was spent on either of these screenplays.

OTHER MOMMY

Based on Josh Malerman’s novel Incidents Around the House, Other Mommy boldly explores a rarely examined fear surrounding motherhood. It is a fantastic idea—one I will not explain further because doing so would venture into spoiler territory. Unfortunately, neither a compelling narrative nor meaningful characters emerge from the disjointed cacophony of vapid scenes surrounding that idea.

The premise is intriguing. The concept is intriguing. Even what I have discerned as the filmmakers’ vision is intriguing. Rob Savage—director of Host and The Boogeyman is behind the camera. But intriguing ideas alone do not make a successful movie.

No amount of disturbing imagery, stylized camera movement, or elaborate visual effects can disguise the absence of dramatic cohesion. The screenplay feels more like an outline than a fully developed story.

If half as much time had been devoted to writing and story editing as appears to have been devoted to creating the movie’s unsettling imagery, “Other Mommy” might have been considerably more effective.

Even the accomplished Jessica Chastain cannot rescue this slapdash assortment of half-developed ideas. Her dual performance provides some entertainment value, and it is wonderful to see her embrace a role unlike most of those in her filmography. She is clearly enjoying the opportunity to play both the mother and her sinister counterpart. There is no phoning it in here.
But enthusiasm and talent can only accomplish so much when an actor has not been given sufficiently compelling material.

In retrospect, the revelation at the center of the story redeems the film ever so slightly. It provides some thematic context for what came before and confirms that there was, indeed, a meaningful idea buried beneath all the visual chaos. After reviewing this movie on ReelTalk with recurring guest and friend of the show Brad Biewer, host of the Cinema Speak Podcast, I feel there is more to explore if I ever watch this movie again. He brought up that–the more he thought about it–that the movie may (consciously or unconsciously) be providing commentary on the ideas of absent mothers and/or fathers in a child’s life, because if mom isn’t there to provide nurture and comfort and dad isn’t there (mentally or physically) to provide guidance and stability, then someone (or in the case of this movie, something) will be the mother/father–that void will be filled. And perhaps that angle gives this movie’s thematic explorations more weight.

But that late recognition is not significant enough to justify even the relatively brief ninety-three-minute runtime. Other Mommy wants audiences to believe that the importance of its central idea excuses the hour and a half spent reaching it–it does not.

There is a provocative and genuinely unsettling exploration of motherhood buried somewhere inside this film. Unfortunately, Other Mommy never develops the story or characters needed to bring it fully to life.

STREET FIGHTER (2026)

This fight delivers a knockout—to the audience.

The individual scenes feel less like parts of a carefully constructed narrative and more like images lifted directly from the first draft of a storyboard. They exist because someone imagined how unsettling they might look—not because one moment meaningfully leads to the next.

Street Fighter is clunky, exhausting, and just plain bizarre. I have seen video-game cutscenes with more narrative. The characters, costumes, signature moves, and ’90s nostalgia are all here. The soundtrack is fun, and the movie delivers numerous references longtime fans will recognize immediately. But there is very little point to any of it.

The plot feels as though it was penciled in as an afterthought between rounds of combat. Once the movie becomes a live-action “choose your fighter” screen, any hope that it might recover from its slapdash opening disappears. What follows is a barrage of character introductions and story arcs lifted from the games and animated spin-offs. The film often feels less like a constructed narrative than something assembled on a six-button control pad.

Fortunately, it does get the characters right. They look and behave like their video-game counterparts, and the likable cast appears genuinely committed to the material. Those performances are simply buried beneath the garish, incoherent movie surrounding them.

Callina Liang’s Chun-Li is a particular bright spot.

Chun-Li was always my favorite character to play in Street Fighter II, and Liang preserves everything that made her memorable. She is physically powerful, agile, self-assured, and permitted to retain her sex appeal without sacrificing strength or agency. And yes, the movie even includes a reference to Chun-Li’s famously muscular thighs. That knowing nod earns one of its genuine laughs.

There are several such winks aimed directly at fans. If you played Street Fighter II, as I did, you will recognize them immediately. Unfortunately, many do not emerge naturally from the characters or plot. Instead, the movie seems to acknowledge its own silliness as a defense against criticism. That approach might have worked if the film ever rose above the material it was mocking—or if it were consistently funny. It does neither.

Street Fighter occupies an uncomfortable middle ground: it is not funny enough to succeed as camp or comedy, yet it is not serious or dramatically coherent enough to work as an action movie in the vein of this year’s much stronger Mortal Kombat II. At best, it sporadically amuses. At worst, it is an assault of noise, color, references, and fighting without sufficient narrative purpose.

It barely improves upon the much-maligned 1994 adaptation—and after more than three decades, that is an extraordinarily low bar to clear.

So, select your opponent: Street Fighter versus you–you lose.

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

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