Tag Archives: Universal Pictures

DISCLOSURE DAY movie review

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Full disclosure: this movie is in need of higher intelligence.

There are few filmmaker collaborations in modern cinema as successful as that of Steven Spielberg and David Koepp. Together, they helped bring audiences some of the most beloved blockbusters of the past three decades, including Jurassic Park. Watching Disclosure Day, however, one cannot help but wonder how much of that film’s enduring magic originated with Michael Crichton’s source material and screenplay draft. Because while Spielberg and Koepp’s latest collaboration contains intriguing ideas, technical proficiency, and occasional flashes of emotional resonance, it ultimately feels less like a finished screenplay and more like a collection of story notes elevated by accomplished filmmaking.

The result is a science-fiction drama that is intermittently engaging but rarely compelling.

About: A meteorologist and a cybersecurity expert find themselves at the center of a movement to expose the government’s cover-up of extraterrestrial secrets.

Movies featuring extraterrestrials have been a staple of cinema for generations. From the cautionary tales and Cold War allegories of the 1950s to the philosophical and emotionally rich science-fiction films that followed, alien stories have repeatedly provided filmmakers with opportunities to explore humanity from an outsider’s perspective. Even television programs such as The Twilight Zone managed to produce dozens of memorable alien stories that balanced suspense, wonder, humor, and moral inquiry in less than thirty minutes. (More on that later).

That is not because the premise lacks potential.

On the contrary, the central concept is fascinating. Spielberg and Koepp introduce numerous provocative ideas, several of which could have sustained an entire film on their own. The problem is that these ideas rarely develop beyond their introduction. Rather than building upon one another, they arrive as individual moments, scenes, and conversations that often feel disconnected from the larger narrative. The film frequently resembles a series of intriguing sequences searching for a story capable of connecting them.

This structural weakness becomes increasingly apparent as the movie progresses. The first act is remarkably protracted, spending an excessive amount of time establishing a premise the audience already understands. By contrast, the second act feels abbreviated, as though key dramatic developments have been compressed in the interest of reaching the finale. The third act, meanwhile, overstays its welcome, stretching material that would have benefited from greater economy and focus.

The irony is that Spielberg eventually finds the emotional center that has defined many of his greatest works.

For a brief period, audiences can glimpse the filmmaker responsible for E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial and Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Human connection begins to emerge. Characters start to feel like people rather than narrative devices. The film develops something resembling a heart.

Unfortunately, it arrives too late.

By the time the emotional foundation finally reveals itself, much of the audience’s investment has already been exhausted by a story that spent too long wandering without clear direction.

Tonally, Disclosure Day suffers from a different but related problem. The film takes itself extraordinarily seriously—so seriously, in fact, that it often resembles a historical biopic or documentary rather than a work of speculative fiction. There is nothing inherently wrong with seriousness. Many great science-fiction films are serious. The issue is that Disclosure Day frequently mistakes solemnity for profundity.

The movie is so determined to be important that it forgets to be imaginative.

This is particularly frustrating because Spielberg has historically excelled at balancing wonder with reflection. Films such as Close Encounters and E.T. understood that mystery and awe are just as important as intellectual inquiry. Here, however, the sense of wonder is surprisingly muted, replaced by a self-importance that often weighs down the narrative.

The film’s treatment of faith and spirituality proves similarly uneven. At times, Spielberg and Koepp offer nuanced and believable portrayals of religious individuals grappling with extraordinary circumstances. One character in particular—a nun whose role I will leave undisclosed—provides some of the film’s most thoughtful and surprising moments. Yet elsewhere, the screenplay appears content to take easy shots at organized religion, resulting in a portrayal that feels inconsistent rather than insightful.

Technically, the film is well crafted. Spielberg remains one of cinema’s most accomplished visual storytellers, and there are moments of undeniable craftsmanship throughout. The exception is the visual effects work surrounding several of the film’s alien creatures, which often possess a strangely artificial, video-game quality that undermines their intended impact.

Still, technical proficiency can only carry a film so far.

After watching Disclosure Day, I found myself reflecting on a rather uncomfortable observation: nearly every alien-themed episode of The Twilight Zone delivered more thoughtful ideas, stronger characters, and more satisfying dramatic construction than what is presented here.

Perhaps the film’s greatest indictment is that it arrives decades after The Twilight Zone already explored many of the same questions more effectively. Rod Serling’s landmark anthology routinely delivered stronger characters, clearer themes, more compelling moral dilemmas, and greater dramatic economy than Disclosure Day manages across its entire runtime. Working within the confines of a twenty-five-minute television episode, The Twilight Zone often challenged audiences to reconsider humanity’s place in the universe while simultaneously telling complete and satisfying stories.

Nearly all the episodes of The Twilight Zone linger in the imagination long after the credits roll. Disclosure Day, by contrast, feels destined to become little more than a temporary water-cooler conversation—an intriguing premise discussed for a few days before fading from memory. The difference is not one of budget, technology, or visual spectacle. It is the difference between a story built around an idea and a story that understands what to do with that idea once it arrives.

Great science fiction requires compelling characters, coherent storytelling, and ideas that evolve beyond their initial presentation. Disclosure Day contains pieces of all three, but never assembles them into a satisfying whole.

If audiences enter the theater hoping for another E.T. or Close Encounters of the Third Kind, they are likely to leave disappointed. While Disclosure Day contains intriguing concepts and occasional flashes of Spielberg’s enduring humanity, it never develops the compelling characters, narrative cohesion, or sense of wonder that made those earlier films endure.

What remains is a technically proficient science-fiction drama built around fascinating questions but surprisingly few satisfying answers. Disclosure Day proves that even legendary filmmakers cannot rely on ideas alone. Great science fiction requires compelling characters, coherent storytelling, and a sense of wonder equal to its ambitions. Despite occasional flashes of Spielberg’s enduring humanity, this is one disclosure that never fully reveals its potential.

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

PRESSURE (2026) film review

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Some of history’s most consequential battles are won before the first shot is fired.

Few people associate D-Day with weather forecasting. Fewer still know the name James Stagg. Yet without his forecast, one of the most important military operations in history may have unfolded very differently.

Based on the stage play by David Haig, who also adapts his own work for the screen, Pressure transforms a little-known chapter of World War II into an engaging drama about uncertainty, responsibility, and the burden of decision-making. On paper, a film centered on meteorologists debating atmospheric conditions in the days leading up to the Normandy invasion sounds like the sort of project destined for educational television or a museum visitor center. Instead, it becomes a surprisingly compelling thriller, one driven less by combat than by anticipation.

At the center of the story is Dr. James Stagg, portrayed by Andrew Scott in a performance that quietly anchors the entire film. Stagg is tasked with delivering the weather forecast that will help determine whether General Dwight Eisenhower proceeds with the largest amphibious invasion in military history. Scott understands that the drama lies not in weather patterns themselves, but in the crushing responsibility that accompanies them. Every cloud formation, pressure system, and forecast carries potentially catastrophic consequences. His performance is restrained, thoughtful, and deeply human. Even when surrounded by military officers and strategic planners, Scott commands the audience’s attention.

One of the film’s greatest strengths is its structure. Although audiences know D-Day ultimately proceeds, Pressure still manages to generate genuine suspense. The ticking clock becomes a powerful dramatic device as military leaders await Stagg’s final recommendation. Every conversation, disagreement, and meteorological update points toward the same looming decision. Unlike many contemporary films that mistake a series of events for storytelling, Pressure understands the value of narrative momentum. Every scene serves a purpose. Every moment contributes to the mounting tension.

The film’s theatrical origins are occasionally visible, particularly in its dialogue-heavy scenes and confined settings. Yet rather than feeling limited by its stage roots, Pressure successfully expands beyond them. Haig’s screenplay retains the intimacy and character focus of a play while allowing the camera to explore a broader world. The result feels cinematic without sacrificing the strengths of the source material.

Kerry Condon provides excellent support as Kay Summersby, Eisenhower’s driver and confidante. Summersby injects welcome humor into an otherwise tense environment, but more importantly, she serves as one of the film’s most grounded voices. In rooms often dominated by military hierarchy and scientific debate, she offers practical observations and challenges assumptions with refreshing directness. Condon ensures the character never feels relegated to the sidelines.

The film’s most significant weakness comes in the form of Brendan Fraser’s portrayal of General Dwight Eisenhower. Fraser never quite settles into the role. Where Scott’s performance is measured and restrained, Fraser operates at a perpetual state of intensity. Eisenhower spends much of the film sounding as though every conversation represents the climax of a different movie. Rather than conveying the quiet burden of command, Fraser often feels as though he is performing the idea of leadership. It is not a disastrous performance, but it remains the film’s least convincing element.

When the invasion finally arrives, Pressure wisely avoids attempting to compete with films such as Saving Private Ryan or 1917. The D-Day sequences lack the spectacle and visceral emotional impact of those celebrated works, but they remain effective because they are viewed through a different lens. This is not a film about the men storming the beaches. It is a film about the people whose decisions helped determine when that assault would begin.

Watching Pressure on June 6—the anniversary of D-Day itself—felt particularly fitting. The film shines a spotlight on an overlooked participant in one of history’s defining moments and reminds us that history is often shaped not only by those who fight battles, but also by those who make the difficult decisions behind them.

It may never achieve the stature of the great World War II epics, but it succeeds admirably on its own terms. By transforming weather forecasting into compelling drama, Pressure honors an unsung hero and proves that suspense can be found in the most unlikely places.

Listen to my conversation with Brad Biewer of the CinemaSpeak Podcast on this week’s episode of ReelTalk. (Podbean, Apple, Spotify, etc).

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

MICHAEL (2026) biopic review

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Electrifying in look, disjointed in prose.

Michael is, at its best, a spectacle. At its worst, it is a sequence of moments searching for a story to connect them. The film dazzles with electrifying musical numbers and a transformative performance from Jaafar Jackson, recreating the energy and precision that made Michael Jackson a global icon. Yet beneath the surface of that spectacle lies a surprisingly thin dramatic foundation. Rather than unfolding as a cohesive narrative, the movie plays more like a curated timeline—an impressive collection of scenes and set pieces that rarely build upon one another. The result is a biopic that captures the look and sound of greatness, but seldom pauses long enough to explore the human motivations and emotional currents that made that greatness possible.

Michael is the story of the first half of the King of Pop’s life–from his extraordinary early days in the Jackson 5 to the visionary artist whose creative ambition fuels a relentless pursuit to become the biggest entertainer in the world.

Without a doubt, Jaafar Jackson’s performance as his uncle, Michael Jackson, is nothing short of electrifying. He captures the look, the voice, the posture, and—most impressively—the kinetic energy of the King of Pop with uncanny precision. There are stretches in this film where the illusion is so convincing that you genuinely forget you are watching an actor. You feel, instead, as though Michael himself has stepped back onto the stage.

And the film knows it.

The concert and music-video sequences are spectacular—lavish in scale, meticulously choreographed, and technically impressive. From the lighting design to the sound mixing to the camera movement, these moments recreate the experience of a Michael Jackson performance with remarkable fidelity. If you never had the opportunity to see him live, this movie brings you about as close as cinema can.

But spectacle alone cannot sustain a narrative. Despite its visual electricity, Michael plays less like a cohesive drama and more like a curated highlight reel. Scene after scene unfolds with little connective tissue, rarely building upon what came before. The only true continuity in the film is Michael himself—his presence serving as the thread holding together a collection of otherwise disconnected sequences.

As a result, character development is surprisingly thin—even for the central figure. Yes, we hear Michael express his desire to be the best. We see his ambition. We witness his relentless pursuit of perfection. But we rarely feel the emotional engine driving those impulses. Motivation is stated rather than dramatized. The film tells us who Michael is, but seldom allows us to experience how he became that person.

That limitation extends to the supporting characters as well.

Take Joseph Jackson. The film hints at his greed and severity, but it stops short of exploring the deeper complexity of his motivations. There is an important story there—one about a father determined to ensure his children would not spend their lives working in a steel mill in Gary, Indiana. His methods were often harsh, even repulsive, but his ambition was rooted in a desire for something better. That tension, which could have provided dramatic depth, remains largely unexplored.

Many of the characters in this film—including the leads—feel one-dimensional, defined more by their roles in Michael’s life than by their own inner lives. To its credit, the film does succeed in weaving a thematic motif that carries from beginning to end: the enduring influence of Peter Pan. We learn why the story of the boy who never grew up resonated so deeply with Michael from childhood onward, and that thread provides one of the few elements of emotional continuity in the narrative. We also meet his famous chimpanzee, Bubbles—an inclusion that underscores the film’s fascination with the mythology surrounding the man.

Narratively, the movie traces Michael’s journey from his early days in Gary to his 1988 concert in London. But the film feels less like an exploration of his life and more like a survey of it—an overview rather than an examination.

One might argue that such breadth is necessary to capture what amounts to the first half of an extraordinary life within a two-hour runtime. Yet history suggests otherwise. Consider What’s Love Got to Do with It, anchored by a career-defining performance from Angela Bassett as Tina Turner. That film covers decades of triumph and trauma while still delivering character development, narrative momentum, and emotional clarity. It demonstrates that a larger-than-life story can be both expansive and dramatically coherent.

Perhaps the difference lies not in structure, but in subject.

Unlike Turner’s story, Michael Jackson’s legacy remains complicated—shaped not only by unprecedented artistic achievement but also by controversy, scandal, and public scrutiny. For some viewers, that context may make it difficult to fully embrace a film that focuses primarily on the years before his fall from favor. And with the movie ending on a clear “to be continued” note, it seems inevitable that the darker chapters of his life will be addressed in a future installment.

Still, for all its narrative shortcomings, Michael delivers where it matters most to fans: the music. The recreation of the Thriller sequence is a particular highlight—an exhilarating reminder of why Michael Jackson became a global phenomenon. The film’s reverence for his artistry is unmistakable, even if its storytelling discipline is not. I was disappointed, however, that the great Vincent Price receives little more than a passing acknowledgment, though his brief appearance via House of Wax offers a welcome nod to cinema history.

In the end, Michael succeeds as an experience more than as a narrative.

Go for the concert.
Go for the spectacle.
Go to witness an astonishing performance.

But do not expect to leave with a deeper understanding of the man behind the music.

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

WICKED: FOR GOOD movie musical review

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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

BLACK PHONE 2 horror movie review

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Don’t answer the call—best to let go to voicemail.

Atmospheric but empty. Black Phone 2 may ring with eerie potential, but what you’ll hear on the other end is mostly static. You just as soon use a telegraph service to form a connection between the big screen and audience than the calls this movie desperately makes. Derrickson demonstrates that he can certainly direct the heck out of a horror movie, but it might be time for someone else to write the next call–or at the very least, he should perhaps stop hiring his friend as a writing partner. While the film succeeds in delivering a chilling, oppressive atmosphere, reminding us that Derrickson remains one of horror’s more visually articulate directors, it also reinforces the unfortunate truth that he’s a far better director than writer. What we have here is another casualty of the writer-director syndrome; which is to suggest that one can be a stylistic filmmaker or even auteur without need to wear both hats. Some filmmakers are better directors, some better writers–and that’s okay! While Black Phone 2 begins with promise, it quickly devolves into a frustrating exercise in squandered ideas, tonal inconsistency, and narrative disarray.

Bad dreams haunt 15-year-old Gwen as she receives calls from the black phone and sees disturbing visions of three boys being stalked at a winter camp. Accompanied by her brother, Finn, they head to the camp to solve the mystery, only to confront the Grabber — a killer who’s grown even more powerful in death.

The film ambitiously sets out to expand upon the supernatural mythology introduced in the 2022 original. Derrickson clearly wants to explore the dream world as a deeper psychological battleground—echoing the meta-horror energy of A Nightmare on Elm Street III: Dream Warriors. But instead of capturing that sequel’s inspired creativity and emotional cohesion, Black Phone 2 feels more like a discount version of a superior brand. The screenplay introduces a fascinating set of “rules” for how this dream realm operates, only to immediately ignore or contradict them, leaving the audience confused rather than intrigued. Internal logic is sacrificed for jump scares and contrived character beats that go nowhere.

And speaking of characters—if you can call them that—most are little more than human wallpaper. Half the ensemble feels like a collection of movie people consisting of broadly sketched types that serve a single plot function before fading into irrelevance. Others border on offensive caricature, perpetuating inaccurate and disparaging stereotypes. For all intents and purposes, about three-and-a-half characters can be removed from the movie, and the story play out much the same. Why that half-character? Because, they do help develop the plot in a measurable way–albeit a modicum of development. When a film’s supporting cast functions more like furniture versus people, no amount of spooky atmosphere can save it. The best written and developed character was Demián Bichir’s Armando.

Still, there are moments, scenes, and even entire sequences that remind us of Derrickson’s undeniable craftsmanship. His camera captures dread beautifully; his sense of timing and space within the frame conjures genuine unease. There are glimpses of a haunting, emotionally resonant movie buried somewhere beneath the fractured structure and incoherent script. Unfortunately, those glimpses are fleeting. And that’s the great tragedy here—not just for Black Phone 2, but for a growing trend in contemporary filmmaking: the writer-director who insists on doing it all, in the name of authorship.

Once upon a time, filmmakers understood that collaboration was the lifeblood of cinema. Directors directed. Writers wrote. And when both crafts worked in harmony, we got films that not only looked great but meant something. Somewhere along the line, “auteur” became synonymous with “solo act,” and too many directors convinced themselves that to have a voice, they had to pen the script too. The result? Movies that look immaculate but feel hollow—visual symphonies built on shaky foundations.

Derrickson is a perfect example (another is Jordan Peele). As a director, his command of tone and atmosphere is nearly peerless; his work in horror often hums with intelligence and mood. But Black Phone 2 exposes the limits of his pen. The foundation for a compelling story is here—the bones of something rich and psychologically resonant—but the film never benefits from a writer who truly cares about character, motivation, or thematic depth. It’s as though Derrickson fell so in love with his own concept and craft that he forgot to ask whether the story itself deserved that devotion.

A gifted director needn’t be the writer to be an auteur. In fact, some of the greatest auteurs—Hitchcock, Spielberg, even Fincher–are those who know the value of letting a skilled screenwriter shape the clay before they bring it to life. Black Phone 2 might have been a haunting triumph had Derrickson trusted someone else, other than his friend, to write the words for the world he so clearly knows how to visualize. Instead, we’re left with a reminder that even the most talented filmmaker can’t build a cathedral on a cracked foundation.

By the time the credits roll, Black Phone 2 feels like a series of individually thoughtful scenes strung together by a story that never quite finds its pulse. It’s a patchwork of ideas that might have worked—had they been developed, connected, or earned. The result is a film that looks and sounds like a horror movie, but never feels like one worth the cost of time.

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