Tag Archives: R.L. Terry

WUTHERING HEIGHTS (2026) film review

Posted on by
Reply

A very lose adaptation.

Is it a bold, thoughtful reinterpretation of a literary classic—or a grotesquely self-indulgent fever dream? Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights positions itself squarely at the intersection of gothic romance and modern sensibility, daring to reimagine Emily Brontë’s tempestuous novel for contemporary audiences. The question is not whether Fennell has vision—she undeniably does—but whether that vision honors Brontë’s architecture or merely rearranges it to suit her own aesthetic impulses.

Tragedy strikes when Heathcliff falls in love with Catherine Earnshaw, a woman from a wealthy family in 18th-century England. What follows, in Brontë’s telling, is a slow-burning study of pride, cruelty, class, and decay.

Let us begin where praise is due. Emerald Fennell is undeniably a visionary director. Her eye for composition, color, texture, and environmental immersion is extraordinary. Every frame feels curated—shadow and candlelight carefully balanced, fabrics heavy with implication, the moors rendered both seductive and foreboding. The costuming and production design are exquisite, nearly flawless in execution. If one were evaluating this film purely as visual art, it would stand among the most striking adaptations of Brontë ever mounted. There is a neo-gothic confidence in its aesthetic—modern, tactile, and immersive.

Unfortunately, that same discipline is absent from the screenplay.

Fennell the director and Fennell the writer feel like two different artists. Subtlety is sacrificed in favor of blunt-force reinterpretation. When Fennell adheres closely to Brontë’s plotting, the film works. When she strays—and she strays often—the adaptation buckles under the weight of unnecessary revisionism.

The most egregious example is the character assassination of Catherine’s father. In both the novel and the 1939 William Wyler adaptation, he is a kindly, stabilizing force—the glue that holds the family together. It is only upon his death that his biological son, Hindley, descends into cruelty and degradation, transforming Heathcliff from adopted son to servant in a perverse Cinderella inversion. Fennell eliminates Hindley altogether, redistributing his vices—gambling, drunkenness, cruelty—onto the father himself, rendering him a monstrous, bigoted drunk from the outset. This is not reinterpretation; it is structural sabotage.

By corrupting the father from the beginning, the narrative loses its axis of decay. And decay is central to Wuthering Heights. The estate should mirror the relationships within it—beautiful at first, falling gradually into ruin as love curdles into vengeance. Yet Fennell presents Wuthering Heights as decrepit from the outset. If everything is already broken, there is no meaningful deterioration to witness. The symbolism collapses before it can resonate.

Isabella Linton suffers a similar flattening. In Brontë’s novel and prior adaptations, she possesses dimension, agency, and tragic complexity. Here, she is comparatively inert, stripped of the inner life that once made her more than a narrative device. Again, when Fennell stays close to Brontë, the film steadies itself. When she diverges, the narrative weakens.

Pacing further undermines the film’s impact. What could have been told effectively in an hour and forty-five minutes stretches to two hours and fifteen, with a protracted second act that tests even patient viewers. Entire opening sequences could be excised without loss, and substantial portions of the middle tightened considerably. One feels the absence of editorial restraint—the checks and balances that a separate, more disciplined screenwriter might have imposed.

And yet, there are cinematic pleasures here.

While the narrative falters, the film’s visual architecture is nothing short of extraordinary. Production design, cinematography, and costuming operate in near-perfect harmony, creating a world deeply rooted in Gothic romance yet unmistakably filtered through contemporary sensibilities. The estate’s textures—weathered wood, cold stone, candlelit interiors—create a tactile atmosphere that is immersive and deliberate. The color palette oscillates between muted earth tones and saturated bursts of crimson and shadow, suggesting emotional volatility beneath composure.

The costuming deserves particular recognition. Fennell understands silhouette and line as psychological tools. Structured bodices, layered fabrics, and stark contrasts in texture mirror emotional rigidity and suppressed desire. There is a modern sharpness in the tailoring—a recalibration that prevents the film from feeling museum-bound. This is Gothic romance rendered through a contemporary lens without collapsing into gimmickry.

The cinematography further elevates the material. Light and shadow are deployed not merely for aesthetic pleasure but for emotional suggestion. Faces emerge from darkness as though haunted by memory; candlelight flickers against stone walls like unstable devotion. Fennell’s compositional instincts are impeccable—symmetry fractured at key moments, framing that isolates characters even when they occupy the same space. Visually, this Wuthering Heights breathes.

Fennell’s restraint also deserves applause. After the provocative spectacle of Saltburn—and the social media speculation that followed—many anticipated a sexually explicit interpretation of Brontë. Instead, this adaptation is comparatively restrained. Passion is implied more often than shown. Edginess exists, yes—but it is measured, not gratuitous. Ironically, this restraint underscores her discipline as a director even while her writing falters.

Performatively, the film is strong. Robbie and Elordi deliver committed, emotionally grounded performances, leaning into the operatic intensity of the material without tipping into parody. Hong Chau, as Nelly, provides a compelling presence—observant, restrained, and quietly anchoring the emotional chaos around her. The cast frequently elevates what the script undermines.

There are even moments—brief, surprising—that are genuinely funny. Fennell understands tonal modulation, allowing dry humor to flicker through the gloom like shafts of unexpected light.

Ultimately, 2026’s Wuthering Heights is immersive and visually arresting but narratively anemic. It demonstrates how essential the collaborative checks and balances of cinema truly are. A more disciplined screenwriter paired with Fennell’s formidable directorial skill could produce something extraordinary. Instead, we are left with an adaptation that is imaginative, occasionally exhilarating—and unlikely to command a rewatch.

It is not without merit. But it mistakes alteration for insight, excess for depth, and provocation for revelation. And for a story as enduring as Brontë’s, that is a costly miscalculation.

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

Love-themed Film Scores

Posted on by
Reply

Valentine’s Special 2026

With Valentine’s Day approaching, it felt like the right moment to step away from jump scares, body counts, and box office noise—and spend an hour with something far more enduring: love, as expressed through film music.

Cinema has always struggled to say what love feels like. Dialogue often collapses under the weight of it—becoming either too poetic or painfully banal. Film scores, on the other hand, have an uncanny ability to articulate what words cannot: longing, ecstasy, restraint, obsession, memory, and heartbreak. Sometimes all at once.

This episode’s juried selections are not simply “romantic” scores in the conventional sense. These are works that understand love as complicated and often uncomfortable—love that consumes, love that lingers, love that is sacrificed or denied. From classic Hollywood to modern cinema, these scores don’t just underscore romance; they interrogate it.

Some of these films are sweeping and operatic. Others are quiet, restrained, almost painfully intimate. But what they share is an emotional honesty—music that trusts the listener to feel deeply without being told how.

So settle in. Let the music guide the conversation. This is ReelTalk—and today, we’re listening to what love sounds like.

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

Posted on by
Reply

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

CLUE 40th Anniversary

Posted on by
Reply

40 Years Later, It’s Still One of the Smartest Comedies Ever Made From One of the Dumbest Possible Premises.

Clue (1985) somehow caught lightning in a bottle, and has held onto it for four decade; this same lightning was then shaken and thrown against the silver screen in the most delightfully chaotic ways imaginable. Forty years later, this all-star murder mystery based on the classic boardgame remains sharper, funnier, and more lovingly crafted than most prestige comedies released today. What should have been a disposable novelty became a masterpiece of comedic architecture, tonal discipline, and ensemble chemistry. I first discovered it on VHS from my local public library, and even then I knew I had stumbled onto something special. My sister loves it as much as I do. It’s a movie that works on you—and then keeps working every time you revisit it.

For my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media this week, I invited returning guest and friend of the show, film critic Sean Boelman to join me in our celebration of Clue‘s 40th anniversary. You can listen to the show by clicking the appropriate link below. While my article captures the highlights of what Sean and I discuss, listening to the show after reading the article, you’ll have a much more robust experience!

At its core, Clue commits fully to three things most comedic mysteries never attempt at the same time: total absurdity, airtight plotting, and theatrical precision. Most films in the genre pick one lane—either slapstick, or clever mystery, or witty farce—but Clue weaves them together with an elegance that belies how frantic the movie feels moment to moment. Unlike many modern adaptations drowning in CGI, brand synergy, or self-aware winking, Clue treats its ludicrous premise with the sincere craftsmanship of an Agatha Christie play–yet–Clue’s apparatus is actually more closely related to the boardgame play than to the typical Christie literary apparatus. The humor is character-driven, rooted in rhythm, timing, and razor-sharp verbal dexterity. That sincerity, combined with its unhinged heart, is why the film remains timeless.

Much of Clue’s durability stems from how it uses language as a weapon. This is not a movie relying on boardgame nostalgia or shallow references; it is powered by dense wordplay, screwball pacing, and overlapping exchanges that feel plucked from a stage farce running at espresso speed. Every performer is asked to treat their lines with theatrical precision. The jokes arrive in layers, often stacked on top of each other, rewarding audiences who pay attention and enhancing the comedy with every rewatch. By grounding the absurdity in craft—rather than irony—the film avoids collapsing into randomness. It feels smart, not silly; intentional, not accidental. Humor this tightly constructed simply does not age.

Another reason the film works: it respects the genre it’s parodying. Clue doesn’t mock murder mysteries from a distance. It commits to the melodrama, the red herrings, the stakes—even as it gleefully skewers them. Parody only works when sincerity lies beneath the joke. Modern adaptations often fail because they either drown in self-awareness or cling to seriousness so tightly the comedy feels bolted on. Clue threads the needle by honoring the mechanics of a whodunit while joyfully stretching them to the breaking point. It loves the sandbox it’s playing in, and the audience can feel that affection.

Of course, the film’s most unforgettable asset is its ensemble cast, which may be one of the best comedic troupes ever assembled on screen. These are character actors trained in theater, sketch, and improv—who understand timing and ensemble harmony better than any star-studded ensemble today. Tim Curry’s manic precision, Madeline Kahn’s volcanic eccentricity, Michael McKean’s brilliant awkwardness, Lesley Ann Warren’s slinky aloofness—every actor is distinct, yet completely in tune with the film’s wavelength. No one competes for the spotlight; instead, every moment becomes a relay race of comedic energy. Modern ensemble films often feel like stitched-together “bits.” Clue feels alive, reactive, and musical. It is an ensemble in the purest sense.

And then, of course, there are the multiple endings—a theatrical gamble so audacious it could have sunk the film entirely. Instead, it became an iconic part of its identity. In 1985, you never knew which ending you’d get in theaters, a cheeky nod to the board game’s replayability. Instead of feeling gimmicky, it felt organic to the world of the film—a natural extension of its playful tone and farcical structure. Today, a studio would almost certainly turn the idea into a marketing ploy or streaming bonus feature, but in Clue, the endings are crafted with sincerity and precision, not cynicism. They’re not content strategy; they’re punchlines.

The film’s simplicity is another key to its longevity. Where modern game adaptations inflate themselves into lore-heavy franchises, Clue keeps everything contained in one house with one group of increasingly frantic characters. The mansion becomes a pressure cooker where personality collisions become the main spectacle. No elaborate world-building, no digital spectacle—just smart writing, sharp performances, and a commitment to letting the humor build naturally. The film’s scale is its strength.

Would Clue still find an audience today? Absolutely—although probably through a different path. Theatrical comedy has become a rare species, and a film this verbally dense might struggle to secure screen space. But word of mouth would spread like wildfire, and social media would turn its most quotable lines into instant memes. If anything, its intelligence, compact scope, and genuine ensemble work would feel refreshingly rebellious in today’s IP-heavy landscape.

What ultimately makes Clue endlessly rewatchable—more than contemporaries like Knives Out—is that it’s a comedy first and a mystery second. The joy doesn’t hinge on solving the puzzle; it hinges on watching these characters unravel in the most glorious fashion. Puzzles fade with familiarity. Brilliant performances only deepen. The more you watch Clue, the funnier it becomes.

So what is Clue’s greatest legacy? It proved something rare: that a film can be wildly silly and intellectually sharp at the same time. It’s a miracle of tonal balance, ensemble synchronicity, and writerly discipline. A movie that treats its audience with respect even as it descends into delightful chaos. A movie that should have been forgotten…yet became unforgettable.

Forty years later, Clue remains the gold standard—not because it adapts a board game faithfully, but because it transcends one. It is lightning in a bottle. And every time we open that bottle, the spark still flies.

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

WICKED: FOR GOOD movie musical review

Posted on by
Reply

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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