Tag Archives: ReelTalk

CLUE 40th Anniversary

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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

WHEN CINEMA SANG: TOP TEN MOVIE SONGS OF THE 1980s

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When we look back at the films of the 1980s, it’s impossible to separate the images on screen from the songs that scored them. This was the decade when movie music didn’t just underscore the action—it defined it. A single track could embody the spirit of a film while simultaneously capturing the mood of an entire generation. And remarkably, so many of those songs remain with us today. They’re still streamed on playlists, still belted out at karaoke, still instantly recognizable from their opening chords. The 1980s gave us movie songs that became cultural landmarks, and in many ways, they’ve never stopped playing.

Among the long arc of cinema history, the 1980s stand out as the high-water mark of the movie song. This was the era when a soundtrack single could leap to the top of the charts overnight, transforming into a cultural event in its own right. Whether it was an infectious pop hook or a soaring power ballad, these songs weren’t just background music; they were stitched into the fabric of the films and the culture itself. Think of the triumphant synth-drenched pulse of Flashdance…What a Feeling, the high-octane rush of Danger Zone, or the emotional catharsis of Wind Beneath My Wings. The decade leaned into the marriage of sound and image with unapologetic boldness, and in doing so created songs as enduring as the films they came from—sometimes even more so.

Why have they endured? Partly because they articulated universal experiences—ambition, risk, heartbreak, friendship—in melodies and lyrics that were at once sincere and unforgettable. The 1980s were an era of spectacle, melodrama, and unabashed emotion, and the songs mirrored that ethos. They became sonic shorthand for youth, energy, rebellion, and joy. In an age when MTV amplified every movie track into a visual pop event, these songs weren’t merely incidental—they were emotional anchors, marketing juggernauts, and narrative engines. Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now carried Mannequin’s optimism beyond the multiplex and into wedding halls. Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 gave voice to working-class frustration while climbing the radio charts. And Don’t You (Forget About Me) is now inseparable from Judd Nelson’s raised fist in The Breakfast Club. These weren’t just songs in movies; they became shorthand for the decade’s imagination.

Why don’t we have these same kind of songs today? There’s been a cultural shift–most noticeably in the 2020s, but has its roots in the mid to late 1990s. By the 1990s and 2000s, the conditions that made such songs possible began to fade. Pop soundtracks increasingly licensed pre-existing hits rather than commissioning originals. Franchise filmmaking turned toward instrumental scores and brand cohesion rather than big, show-stopping anthems. And as music videos lost their central cultural role, so too did the symbiotic relationship between cinema and pop radio. The cultural machine that once elevated a movie song into a generational anthem simply no longer works the same way.

Reflecting upon more recent years, much of 2020s pop and movie music is created in a climate of deep cynicism and fragmentation. Songs today are often crafted for algorithms, for virality on TikTok, or as ironic counterpoints in film soundtracks rather than as emotional anchors. Other songs carry with them a tone of anger or polarization. Audiences, steeped in skepticism toward institutions, media, and even each other, tend to reward irony, detachment, or knowing self-parody over the kind of unguarded sincerity that defined the 80s. A song that earnestly belts out its hopes risks being labeled “cheesy” or “dated,” whereas in the 1980s, that very boldness was the point.

One of the most striking contrasts between the 1980s and the 2020s is the sense of permanence. The movies and music of the 1980s were made with a boldness that seemed intent on lasting—on making an impression that would outlive the decade itself. By contrast, much of today’s popular culture, both in film and in music, feels designed for rapid consumption rather than long-term resonance–its largely disposable.

Songs today are often crafted not for endurance but rather for algorithms—engineered to spike on streaming platforms, go viral on TikTok, or capture a brief window of attention on curated playlists. In that sense, music has become increasingly functional: it serves a moment, a meme, a mood, but rarely aspires to the kind of cultural monumentality that defined the best of the 1980s. The hooks are short, the structures lean toward repetition, and the lifespan of a hit can sometimes be measured in weeks rather than years. The same phenomenon is evident in today’s movies. Franchise blockbusters dominate the box office, but their cultural imprint often fades once the next installment arrives. Films are built as nodes in larger intellectual property ecosystems, not as singular artistic statements. Just as contemporary songs often feel interchangeable—quickly eclipsed by the next release—so too do many films function as disposable content, part of a cycle of endless consumption rather than enduring cultural landmarks.

By comparison, the movies and songs of the 1980s embraced scale and spectacle not just for immediate impact but for legacy. A hit song wasn’t simply filler for a soundtrack; it was an anthem meant to outlive its film, designed to thrive on the radio, MTV, and in the cultural memory. Similarly, films were often built as self-contained phenomena: E.T., Top Gun, Back to the Future—movies that carried an aura of event cinema and refused to feel like disposable installments. This is not to say that contemporary culture lacks quality (although that appears to be increasingly true, in the opinion of this scholar and critic), but rather that its structures encourage disposability. With so much “content” (the use of content versus film or music is intentional) being produced at such speed, both music and movies are often designed to capture attention briefly rather than to linger. The result is a cultural landscape that feels ephemeral, where few works are positioned to endure in the way that 1980s soundtracks and films continue to do.

Suffice it to say, the movie songs of the1980s sought to define a generation; today, music and movies often just try to define a moment.

It appears all too clear that in the 1980s, movies weren’t just stories we watched; they were songs we sang, dances we learned, and emotions we carried. It wasn’t simply a golden age of movie music—this era was the last time cinema’s soundtrack felt like the heartbeat of the culture. In our present times, wherein pop culture often reflects uncertainty and disillusionment, the 1980s (extending into the 1990s) stand as the last great era when music from movies felt larger than life, confident enough to aim for forever. Moreover, these songs transcend generations by speaking directly to universal desires—love, empowerment, joy, escape—modern songs often feel locked, chained to their cultural moment or fixated on a particular socio-political lament.

The 1980s–when cinema sang! What the 1970s did for cinematic scores, the 1980s did for music that wrapped us in the cinematic experience.

This week, on my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media, I sat down with returning guest and friend of the show music professor Dr. Steven DiBlasi to countdown our Top Ten Movie Songs of the 1980s. Our respective lists both aligned and diverged, covering the wide spectrum of great, memorable movie songs. This is where I am going to direct you to listen to the show (approx 1hr) to avoid spoilers, but if you’re more of a reader than a listener, then you can find our ranked lists below.

Listen

Top Ten Movie Songs of the 1980s

Mine (Ryan’s)

Dr. DiBlasi’s

  • 10. Stir It Up (Beverly Hills Cop)
  • 9. Trust (Batman)
  • 8. Danger Zone (Top Gun)
  • 7. Wind Beneath My Wings (Beaches)
  • 6. Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now (Mannequin)
  • 5. 9 to 5 (9 to 5)
  • 4. Goonies R Good Enough (The Goonies)
  • 3. Maniac (Flashdance)
  • 2. NeverEnding Story (The NeverEnding Story)
  • 1. Flashdance…What a Feeling (Flashdance)
  • 10. In Your Eyes (Say Anything)
  • 9. The Heat is On (Beverly Hills Cop)
  • 8. Don’t You Forget About Me (The Breakfast Club)
  • 7. Footloose (Footloose)
  • 6. Fight the Power (Do the Right Thing)
  • 5. Take My Breath Away (Top Gun)
  • 4. Purple Rain (Purple Rain)
  • 3. Eye of the Tiger (Rocky)
  • 2. The Power of Love (Back to the Future)
  • 1. Ghostbusters (Ghostbusters)

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media 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

TOP 10 FILM SCORES OF THE 1970s: AN ECLECTIC DECADE OF TRANSFORMATION

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Film scoring in the 1970s was nothing short of revolutionary. This was a decade in which composers and filmmakers experimented with sound in bold, unprecedented ways. Sweeping orchestras still had their place, but they now shared the stage with eerie minimalism, jazz-infused soundscapes, synthesizers, and even progressive rock. The result was a period of extraordinary breadth and innovation—one that gave us some of the most iconic film music ever written.

At the heart of this decade stood John Williams and Jerry Goldsmith, two composers who dominated in very different ways. Williams revived the lush, symphonic tradition and brought it back to the masses with scores that became cultural phenomena. Goldsmith, meanwhile, was the chameleon—endlessly inventive, prolific, and daring, whether working with avant-garde techniques, electronic experimentation, or lyrical orchestrations. Yet the decade was not defined by them alone. Outsiders like Goblin, with their phantasmagorical score for Suspiria, or directors such as John Carpenter, who electrified horror with nothing more than a chilling piano rhythm in Halloween, proved that iconic film music could be born outside the studio system. Jazz, soul, and early R&B also found their way into major works, mirroring the diverse cultural pulse of the era.

The soundscape of the 1970s was one where tradition collided with innovation. Bernard Hermann closed out his legendary career with Taxi Driver, a jazz-infused urban nightmare that distilled both character and city into sound. Jerry Goldsmith, the consummate innovator, moved effortlessly from the operatic choral terror of The Omen to the avant-garde dissonance of Alien and the melancholy trumpet of Chinatown—not to mention his enduring Star Trek theme, launched in The Motion Picture. Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells, adapted for The Exorcist, demonstrated that minimalist rock could chill as deeply as any orchestra. And Williams resurrected the grand symphonic tradition with Jaws and Star Wars, reintroducing sweeping themes and leitmotifs to a new generation. Taken together, these works made the 1970s both a bridge and a launchpad: honoring the past while daring to explore the future.

Audiences witnessed a resurgence of the full-bodied symphonic score, reviving the golden-age practice of leitmotif-driven composition. But while many scores channeled old Hollywood, these same scores were blazing new trails–trails that future filmmakers would tread and further develop in their own voices. Yet the 1970s were hardly a return to tradition alone. From fragmented jazz and abrasive brass to minimalist repetition that conveyed inevitability, film scores proved that music could disturb and destabilize as effectively as it could uplift. Musical expressions across a wide spectrum were represented and fused throughout the decade. This eclecticism was witnessed in the integration of jazz, rock, and popular styles into film scoring. Jazz, long associated with improvisation and urban grit, seeped into dramas and thrillers, while progressive rock and folk elements brought an otherworldly quality to European cinema.

This embrace of contemporary genres reflected the cultural currents of the 1970s, when popular music increasingly shaped the everyday soundscape. Although electronic instruments are often associated with the 1980s, experimentation with synthesizers truly began in the 1970s. By blending traditional compositional techniques with new technology, composers created atmospheres that felt immense, uncanny, and otherworldly. Horror, in particular, became the proving ground for these sonic experiments. From the satanic choral grandeur of The Omen to the eerie repetition of The Exorcist, the avant-garde unease of Alien, and the surrealism of Suspiria, horror films became laboratories for innovation—setting trends that rippled across genres.

The eclecticism of 1970s film scoring mirrored the turbulence and transformation of American life during that same decade. The United States was navigating a shifting cultural landscape—post-Vietnam disillusionment, Watergate’s erosion of political trust, an energy crisis, and social movements that challenged the norms of race, gender, and identity. Just as the nation was renegotiating its sense of self, film music was renegotiating its role in storytelling. The return of grand symphonic scores reflected a yearning for stability, heroism, and mythmaking in a time of uncertainty. At the same time, the rise of dissonance, minimalism, and electronic experimentation resonated with audiences living through an era of anxiety and rapid change. Just as the decade was defined by eclectic fashion, political unrest, and artistic upheaval, so too was its film music characterized by hybridity, boldness, and the breaking of old rules. The cinema became a cultural mirror, wherein the nation’s contradictions—fear and hope, nostalgia and progress, tradition and innovation—were set to music.

The 1970s also reasserted film scores as cultural touchstones, in ways not witnessed since Herrmann’s Psycho. John Williams work and name became instantly recognizable beyond the movie theatre, entering the cultural lexicon in a way few film scores had before. Jerry Goldsmith pushed the boundaries of what film music could evoke, Nino Rota created hauntingly elegant themes with operatic weight. Meanwhile, Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells proved that a minimalist rock piece could achieve global recognition and forever alter the sound of horror. Collectively, these works and more reestablished film music not merely as background support, but as a defining element of a film’s identity—inseparable from its success and enduring in the popular imagination.

The 1970s forever changed how we would hear cinema.

This week, on my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media, I sat down with music professor Dr. Steven DiBlasi to countdown our Top Ten Film Scores of the 1970s. Our respective lists both aligned and diverged, covering the wide spectrum of great, memorable film music that was the 1970s. Below, you will find our respective Top 10 lists, but for the full conversation (approx 1hr), you’ll want to listen to the episode!

Listen

Top 10 Film Scores of the 1970s

Mine (Ryan’s)

Dr. DiBlasi’s

  • 10. Taxi Driver (Bernard Herrmann, 1976)
  • 9. The Godfather (Nino Rota, 1972)
  • 8. Chinatown (Jerry Goldsmith, 1974)
  • 7. The Omen (Jerry Goldsmith, 1976)
  • 6. Alien (Jerry Goldsmith, 1979)
  • 5. Star Wars (John Williams, 1977)
  • 4. Jaws (John Williams, 1975)
  • 3. Suspiria (Goblin, 1977)
  • 2. Halloween (John Carpenter, 1978)
  • 1. The Exorcist (Mike Oldfield, 1973)
  • 10. The Petrified Forest (Toro Takemitsu, 1973)
  • 9. Days of Heaven (Ennio Morricone, 1978)
  • 8. Space is the Place (Sun Ra, 1974)
  • 7. A Clockwork Orange (Wendy Carlos, 1971)
  • 6. Don’t Look Now (Pino Donaggio, 1973)
  • 5. Shaft (Isaac Hayes, 1971)
  • 4. Taxi Driver (Bernard Hermann, 1976)
  • 3. Chinatown (Jerry Goldsmith, 1974)
  • 2. Hurricane (Nino Rota, 1979)
  • 1. Star Trek: TMP (Jerry Goldsmith, 1979)

Ultimately, the 1970s was a transformative decade of film music, both a bridge and a launchpad. It bridged the golden age of orchestral scoring with the bold experimentation of the modern era, while launching the blockbuster tradition and electronic innovation that would dominate the decades to come. The eclecticism of 1970s film music remains its hallmark, and its influence can still be heard in how cinema sounds today.

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

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON (2025) movie review

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Timeless. Universal and DreamWorks’ live-action remake of the Academy Award-nominated How to Train Your Dragon (2010) proves that some stories continue to resonate through the ages. Of course, “ages” in this context is only fifteen years. Returning to helm this project, HTTYD veteran writer-director Dean DeBlois crafts a fantasy world that’s incredibly tangible–even the dragons. His combination of puppetry, practical effects, and CGI give the dragons and the land of Berk a naturalism that feels connected to the world on screen. While this live-action remake plays it very close to the original, in terms of scenes and sequences, the heartfelt story will still capture your imagination and serve as a fantastic film for Father’s Day this weekend.

On the rugged isle of Berk, a Viking boy named Hiccup defies centuries of tradition by befriending a dragon named Toothless. However, when an ancient threat emerges that endangers both species, Hiccup’s friendship with Toothless becomes the key to forging a new future. Together, they must navigate the delicate path toward peace, soaring beyond the boundaries of their worlds and redefining what it means to be a hero and a leader.

While it would be easy to chalk 2025’s HTTYD up to an exercise in business theory, given that much of the movie is shot-for-shot of the original, it would be disservice to the audience experience for those that may be seeing this story on the big screen for the first time. Because anyone under the age of 18 (if not 21) either wasn’t yet born or doesn’t remember watching it in the cinema in 2010. And this is a BIG SCREEN movie. If fact, I’d argue that watching HTTYD in a premium format at your local cinema is the best way to return to Berk, particularly if you did see the original animated film in cinemas (as did I). I’ve read reviews that fill the spectrum from “lifeless and lazy” to “better than the original;” neither extreme reaction or interpretation is entirely accurate, in my opinion. Given that much of the story is the same, all the way down to shots, scenes, dialogue, and sequences, I’m choosing to review the film as if watching it for the first time, as many will be watching it for the first time on the big screen.

Since the story is largely unchanged from the original, I don’t want to spend a significant amount of time on it; however, there are themes that leapt off the screen this time even more than when I first saw the original. Perhaps its’ because a lot has happened in our country and around the world in the last fifteen years.

In true allegorical fashion, HTTYD crafts a parable of prejudice and reconciliation that resonates with our contemporary sociocultural landscape. Through its depiction of dragons as misunderstood creatures feared and vilified by Viking society, the film speaks directly to the way some cultures and communities are often dehumanized by dominant cultures. Initially framed as mindless beasts bent on destruction, dragons embody the constructed image of “the other”—not inherently evil, but made threatening through narratives rooted in ignorance and fear.

Through Hiccups’s hero journey, our own fears and prejudices are challenges. His character arc hinges on that pivotal moment with Toothless when he is about to kill him. Not only does Toothless challenge Hiccups’s prevailing ideology, but reframes his worldview of dragons and the people of Berk entirely. “I looked at him, and I saw myself,” he says, distilling the film’s core thesis: true empathy begins when we stop projecting monstrosity onto others and instead recognize shared sentience. In contrast, his father Chief Stoick represents the institutional stronghold of fear and tradition. His transformation from dragon-slayer to dragon-defender is a microcosm of generational reckoning—a character arc that underscores how systemic prejudice can begin to unravel when met with vulnerability and truth.

Thematically, the film’s narrative expands beyond simplistic binaries of good and evil to explore the broader existential anxieties that provoke violence and division. In doing so, HTTYD transcends fantasy and enters the realm of social commentary. It reminds us that the instinct to “other” those who are different is not innate but learned—and, crucially, unlearnable. At a time marked by cultural polarization and survivalist rhetoric, the film dares to imagine a world in which peace is possible—but only if we choose empathy over fear.

Writer-director DeBlois crafts a Berk that feels like a real place, perhaps a place from our own world history. Instead of layer upon layer and scene upon scene of blue and green screens, DeBlois opts to eschew the sterile sterility of digital backlots in exchange for a fantastical world grounded in the tactile weight of reality. Rather than relying on synthetic blue-screen environments, the production team committed to crafting full-scale Viking arenas, longhouses, and coastal villages—sets brimming with texture, history, and atmospheric weight. Filmed on location in Northern Ireland, the practical environments not only enhance the visual authenticity but immerse the audience in a world that feels as lived-in as it is mythic. These tangible structures blend seamlessly with the region’s craggy terrain, lending the film a geographic and cultural specificity that deepens the narrative.

Likewise, the film’s flight sequences are not mere visual spectacle—they are balletic displays of aerodynamic realism. Thanks to a synergy between practical rigging and digital enhancement, the VFX team captures the exhilarating sweep and dive of dragon flight with a physicality rarely achieved in CGI-heavy cinema. Specialized camera systems were deployed to trace every soar and swoop with kinetic precision, preserving the wonder and danger of airborne movement. The result is not just believable—it’s breathtaking. This nuanced and layered approach to the fusion of practical and CGI effects was also in part what made the dragons feel incredibly real. Dragon puppets were used to inform the CGI timing, lighting, and choreography. Later, CG animators seamlessly replaced the physical heads with digital models, preserving actors’ eye-lines and interactions. Mason Thames is rarely acting opposite a tennis ball on a boom pole; his Hiccup is interacting with a dragon set piece that is fully articulate.

Whether the original breathtaking animated film is one that you’ve seen a dozen times or you’ve never seen the original, the live-action remake of the critically acclaimed HTTYD is worth your time at the cinema. Furthermore, this film would make for an outstanding diversion for dads and their kids over this Father’s Day weekend, regardless of ages. Some stories, characters, and themes are timeless, and can still speak to us years later.

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

MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE–THE FINAL RECKONING film review

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What a picture! Mission: Impossible–The Final Reckoning is an exhilarating end to a 29 year old journey. The scale and scope of the final chapter in Tom Cruise’s tenure as Ethan Hunt is out of this world. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, the cast and crew of this film delivered their best to “all those that [they] will never meet.” That’s us–the audience–we are those they will likely never meet. Such a fitting climax to one of the biggest franchises ever to hit the big screen. For everything the movie did right and excellent, it’s not without some shortcomings in the screenwriting. While the first act starts off a little clunky, it does eventually falls into place during the first act. Additionally, fans of the franchise will love the narrative connections to the preceding films, particularly Mission: Impossible and Mission: Impossible III. This is truly a cinematic spectacle deserving of every second on that big silver screen. Tom Cruise proves that he is still the definitive movie star.

Ethan Hunt and the IMF team race against time to find the Entity, a rogue artificial intelligence that can destroy mankind.

Writer-director Christopher McQuarrie brings Mission: Impossible (in its current incarnation) to a climactic close after 29 years. More than delivering a bombastic conclusion to the genre-defining franchise, he connects this film to all the preceding M:I films through both plot and character. Every moment feels earned–this movie and the cast and crew thereof–spare no expense of time or money in providing audiences with a spectacular cinematic experience that reminds us why big screen stories need the BIG SCREEN. Even though I do take issue with McQuarrie’s screenwriting in the first act–the first 15 minutes, or so, do feel a little disjoined and rushed–thankfully the remainder of the first act does fall into place. Not only do the characters have heart underscoring all the electrifying action sequences, the filmmakers involved in this have a heart for the audiences around the globe.

The IMF (Impossible Mission Force) oath reads, “We live and die in the shadows, for those we hold close, and for those we never meet.” And, in this movie, I don’t think that it merely means that the covert operatives and spycraft engineers carry out their missions behind the scenes of life, the way in which the line is delivered, I am all but certain that it’s a wink or nod to the audience indicating that McQuarrie, Cruise, and everyone involved make motion pictures for those they know, their friends and family, and everyone else out in the world that they may likely never meet. There is probably no other working actor out there that so vocally champions cinema like Tom Cruise. This is particularly true during and after COVID with his release of Top Gun: Maverick. Even in a press conference wherein Cruise was asked about the proposed international filmmaking tariffs by a reporter, and he redirected them to The Final Reckoning, because “we’re here to talk about the movie.” The trademark charisma, physics-defying stuntwork, and charm that Cruise brings to the screen serves as evidence why he truly is the definitive movie star working today.

Picking up in the months following the train incident from Dead Reckoning, The Final Reckoning thrusts audiences right into the middle of a world on the brink of WWIII. The entity has infected the internet and it looks like the end of the world, as we know it. Once again, Hunt is being hunted down by his government (and probably other governments too) because he refuses to let the United States have the key that would potentially give them control of the entity’s source code, because no one should be entrusted with that level of power or responsibility–not even Hunt and his IMF team. Ethan Hunt continues to stand up for what is right, the greater good even when it is the most unpopular stance or opinion to hold. Hunt and his team desire to destroy the entity so no one has access to its power and the entity cannot destroy the world so it and Gabriel can remake it in their image. The Final Reckoning forces us to look inward, and ask ourselves how we would react when faced with a world on the brink of disaster. Could we resist giving into our innate self-centered nature, even when disguised as the most logical choice? This movie is a challenge to humanity to always hold onto hope even when it appears to be impossible.

After the clunky start to the movie, the narrative begins to find its tone, pacing, and direction. I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a “McQuarrie Cut” that adds in cut scenes at the beginning. Other than the stars themselves, the star of this movie is practical effects and filmmaking themselves. The CGI is minimal, and is rarely front and center. McQuarrie and Cruise lean into practical effects, mechanical magic, and other elements that give the film a tangible dimension. You cannot replace the way real light bounces off real objects and into the camera lens in this outstanding motion picture. The Final Reckoning is as much a celebration of the decades-old franchise (and TV show even before the original movie in 1996) as it is a celebration of classical filmmaking. Even the scenes and sequences that felt a little too death-defying or unrealistic, they certainly feel naturalistic within the world on screen (though, I’d be lying if I said that some came a little close to being even unbelievable in a Mission: Impossible movie). Even thought he aerial stuntwork in this movie is the most intense we’ve seen, this movie also includes a lot of underwater stuntwork and action sequences. And I must say that is’t he dark, claustrophobic underwater sequences that had me on the edge of my seat. It really is nothing short of incredible what McQuarrie, Cruise, and their teams were able to do in this motion picture.

For fans of the franchise, particularly those that have rewatched the whole franchise leading up to this moment, there are characters from the past that appear in substantive ways and even plot points that were never fully explored int eh past are brought full circle. Few, if any, characters feel like one-dimensional space-fillers–which can easily happen in an action movie–every character has a purpose, has a motivation. We care about our central characters’ survival, we experienced a gut-wrenching death in Dead Reckoning, so we know that these IMF agents are human, they can die. All the more reason why we are completely invested in their survival.

Even though we may get a Mission: Impossible movie in the future, maybe even one with one or more of the IMF team members from this original run of movies, Cruise has stated, in not so many words, that this movie represents his final Mission: Impossible movie in which he is the star. If we have future M:I movies, I’d like to see him make an appearance or play a supporting role, because Tom Cruise IS Mission: Impossible. What I love about these movies is that they seek to entertain first and include any more thoughtful ideas or questions in the subtext or emotional drivers of characters. Entertainment first. So many movies nowadays have such a cynical view of life and traditional values, but here is franchise built on that which brings us all together as a community. High concept? Sure, but that high concept nature of the M:I movies has never meant a meaningless or vapid experience. These movies, and others like them (regardless of genre), are what cinema is all about. And I am sure going to miss looking forward to the next Mission: Impossible movie.

Thank you Tom. And thank you McQuarrie and past writers and directors for 29 years of unparalleled thrills and excitement on the silver screen.

Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk about all things cinema. 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