Tag Archives: R.L. Terry

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

NOW YOU SEE ME: NOW YOU DON’T movie review

Posted on by
Reply

The real magic is in how this movie made it past opening night.

“He was an illusionist…he wasn’t a very good illusionist.” Although that comedic line is delivered by Madeline Kahn in CLUE (1985), it seems rather fitting for the tertiary installment in the Now You See Me series. Now You See Me: Now You Don’t is a cinematic magic trick without magic—an illusion performed with all the spectacle of a streaming-original and none of the wonder that made the first film such a delightful surprise. What should have been a clever caper wrapped in misdirection, sleight of hand, and showmanship instead plays like an inflated pilot episode for a franchise desperate to convince us it still has something up its sleeve.

The Four Horsemen and a new generation of illusionists try to bring down a worldwide criminal network.

Let’s begin with the one element that is genuinely spellbinding: the château sequence of scenes. The production design on display here is fantastic—one of the best production designs of the year. Every room, corridor, and shadow-drenched chamber seems crafted with the meticulous eye of an artisan. Sadly, aside from the technical achievement, this setting is little more than a backdrop to the action within its labyrinthine corridors. In another movie, this location could have been a character unto itself; here, it’s little more than an exceptionally beautiful stage for an otherwise uninspired performance. Still, credit where is due: the château alone might be the only reason this movie deserves to be seen anywhere larger than a laptop screen.

The returning cast—those legacy performers who anchored the earlier installments—slip back into their roles with charm and chemistry. Harrelson always delivers an entertaining performance–ever since his days on Cheers. The rapport between the legacy cast is believable–a once-close group of friends that hasn’t seen one another in a decade, even if the screenplay material underserves them. And yes, Morgan Freeman’s cameo is a genuine delight, a sprinkle of prestige the film desperately needed. But not even Freeman can pull a rabbit out of this hat.

Unfortunately, the three new teenage cast members derail what little fun the film attempts to muster. Obnoxious, self-righteous, and utterly allergic to accountability, they embody the worst tendencies of modern franchise youthification. The film props them up as the only ones who can “fix the world,” all while they display a profound lack of understanding of that very world’s complexities. It’s a toxic ideological cocktail—one part hubris, one part naïveté, shaken vigorously and served without nuance. Their presence doesn’t invigorate the franchise; it infantilizes it.

An overview of the plotting reveals that Now You Don’t contains more holes and narrative gaps than those the O.J. jury was willing to ignore. Motivations shift without cause, twists are telegraphed from miles away, and the screenplay is so preoccupied with its social commentary that it forgets to construct a believable story around it. The message—about the wealthy exploiting the poor—is noble in theory but executed with such superficiality that it borders on parody. It’s activism-by-template, the cinematic equivalent of most “thoughts and prayers” tweets.

Worse, the film contains no meaningful tension. It coasts on comic-book logic without embracing the fun of comic-book storytelling. Stakes evaporate. Consequences vanish. Nearly every set piece feels contrived rather than orchestrated. Magic, by its nature, requires misdirection, timing, and a suspension of disbelief; this film offers none of those. What should have been a thrilling high-wire act is instead a leisurely stroll with training wheels–or perhaps a trite-cycle of a movie.

Now You See Me: Now You Don’t is a movie that wants to dazzle but barely flickers. It lacks cinematic gravitas, emotional investment, and narrative cohesion. And much like a forgettable card trick, it should ultimately disappear from cinemas—preferably before anyone attempts to resurrect this franchise again. It’s time to vanish.

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

Posted on by
Reply

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