Tag Archives: Universal Studios

THE ODYSSEY film review

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Magnificent moments in search of an epic story.

When audiences leave The Odyssey, they’ll likely be talking about the Trojan Horse, the Cyclops, the sea monsters, and the breathtaking images Christopher Nolan has conjured for the largest screens imaginable. And rightly so. Few filmmakers working today possess Nolan’s ability to stage spectacle on such an astonishing scale. Yet for all its technical brilliance and jaw-dropping visual achievement, The Odyssey left me admiring its individual moments and technical achievement far more than the story connecting them.

About the film: Odysseus (Matt Damon) embarks on a dangerous voyage back to Ithaca following the Trojan War, encountering treacherous creatures like the Cyclops Polyphemus, Sirens, and the gates of Hades.

While few filmmakers have demonstrated the talent and skill to craft motion pictures on the scale and scope of Nolan’s, many have been able to create motion picture offerings truly deserving of the big screen treatment. But, cinema has become so enamored with spectacle that audiences increasingly mistake scale for storytelling. The two are not synonymous. A breathtaking image may inspire awe, but without dramatic architecture it struggles to resonate beyond the moment it appears on screen.

This is the central irony of Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey. Adapting the foundational epic of Western storytelling—a tale whose dramatic framework has influenced literature and cinema for nearly three millennia—Nolan delivers some of the most astonishing imagery ever projected onto a movie screen while simultaneously diminishing the very narrative mechanics that made Homer’s poem endure.

Nolan has long challenged conventional storytelling, but innovation alone neither elevates nor diminishes a work of art. The irony here is especially striking because The Odyssey originates from the civilization that gave us many of the dramatic principles still underpinning Western storytelling. Homer didn’t simply tell an adventure; he created the definitive mythic journey—a narrative whose emotional power comes from watching Odysseus endure one impossible trial after another as he struggles home.

Nolan’s adaptation rarely allows that journey to accumulate. Instead, the film drifts between spectacular episodes much as Odysseus himself drifts across the sea. Each sequence is magnificent in isolation, but the nonlinear structure continually interrupts the dramatic momentum needed for the voyage to feel emotionally cumulative.

For viewers already familiar with Homer’s epic, reconstructing the chronology isn’t especially difficult. For those encountering The Odyssey for the first time, however, the film provides surprisingly little connective tissue or narrative context. Rather than deepening the myth, the fragmented structure often obscures it. As odd as it may sound, the 1990s Wishbone adaptation arguably communicates the story’s emotional architecture more effectively.

Some have dismissed my criticism by suggesting I simply dislike nonlinear storytelling. The opposite is true. Some of my favorite films—including Mulholland Drive, Rashomon, Arrival, Pulp Fiction, Memento, and The Godfather Part II—all abandon linear chronology. What unites those films is that their structures reveal character, reinforce theme, or place the audience inside a unique perspective that chronological storytelling could not achieve. Their nonlinear construction enriches the drama.

Here, Nolan primarily uses a nonlinear structure to reorganize the plot.

That distinction matters, because the result is a film whose storytelling often feels less powerful than its individual scenes. Fortunately, those scenes are truly extraordinary.

One observation from fellow critic Sean Boelman has lingered with me since seeing the film. Sean—who admired The Odyssey far more than I did—suggested that Nolan’s nonlinear structure feels reminiscent of oral storytelling. The more I’ve reflected on that idea, the more I think he’s right. There is a quality to the film that resembles hearing an ancient bard recount Odysseus’ adventures, jumping from one episode to another as memory and emphasis dictate rather than strict chronology.

Where we ultimately diverge is whether that approach serves the medium of cinema. Oral storytelling and visual storytelling are not identical languages. What works around a fire or in the halls of ancient Greece does not necessarily produce the strongest dramatic experience on a movie screen. Cinema possesses tools that oral tradition never could: editing, visual composition, performance, and dramatic pacing that build cumulative emotional momentum. By adopting the rhythms of oral storytelling, Nolan creates an undeniably fascinating interpretation of Homer’s epic, but one that, for me, sacrifices too much of the dramatic architecture that gives the journey its emotional force.

This is what makes The Odyssey such a fascinating film to evaluate. Rarely have I encountered a movie in which spectacle and dramatic architecture diverge so dramatically. As a visual achievement, Nolan’s film ranks among the most impressive epics of the modern era. As a piece of dramatic storytelling, I found it considerably less satisfying.

The Trojan Horse sequence is among the most awe-inspiring moments Nolan has ever filmed. Every set, every landscape, every battle possesses a mythological grandeur rarely seen in modern filmmaking. Watching The Odyssey, I found myself imagining what audiences must have experienced seeing Metropolis or The Ten Commandments for the first time. Those films redefined cinematic scale for their generations. Nolan’s achievement feels similarly monumental.

Which is why The Odyssey absolutely deserves to be seen on the biggest screen available. Whether that’s 70mm IMAX or another premium format matters far less than simply experiencing its overwhelming visual and sonic presentation in a theater. A larger screen won’t solve the screenplay’s structural shortcomings, but it will allow viewers to fully appreciate one of the most ambitious technical achievements of recent years.

Matt Damon anchors the film with quiet confidence, delivering perhaps the strongest performance of the ensemble. He fully inhabits Odysseus, carrying both the physical burden of the journey and the emotional weariness of a man desperate to return home. The remainder of the cast performs capably without leaving much of a lasting impression. Tom Holland never entirely escapes echoes of Peter Parker, Anne Hathaway provides the elegance and composure we’ve come to expect, and Robert Pattinson is surprisingly underutilized. There are no poor performances—only few that linger after the credits.

Ultimately, I suspect The Odyssey will be remembered as one of the year’s biggest cinematic events, and deservedly so. Nolan has once again reminded audiences why epic filmmaking belongs in theaters, where stories of mythic scale can be experienced communally rather than consumed individually at home.

I only wish the storytelling had matched the magnificence of the filmmaking.

For all its extraordinary craftsmanship, The Odyssey left me marveling at its images more than feeling the weight of Odysseus’ journey. In the end, Nolan delivers an unforgettable cinematic experience, but not, for me, an unforgettable telling of Homer’s timeless epic.

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

MINIONS & MONSTERS

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Understands that movie magic isn’t merely that which you watch—it’s something you feel.

Some movies entertain us. Others remind us of why we fell in love with movies int he first place–Minions & Monsters is the latter. The Minions franchise has always revolved around a simple premise: these delightfully chaotic yellow creatures are forever searching for the next great master to serve. It is a formula that has produced plenty of laughs over the years, but Minions & Monsters wisely recognizes that every successful franchise eventually reaches a point where it must grow beyond its original concept. This film does exactly that.

Rather than centering its story on finding another larger-than-life villain, Minions & Monsters becomes something far more personal. It is about loving something so deeply that it becomes an extension of who you are. In this case, that something is the movies themselves.

Following the Minions through the history of Hollywood, the film functions simultaneously as a celebration of cinema, a playful history lesson, and a heartfelt story about pursuing dreams despite setbacks. Along the way, audiences are reminded of an era when movies were events rather than simply another form of “content” competing for our attention.

The filmmakers understand that cinema has always been more than projected images on a screen. Movies preserve dreams. They inspire careers. They connect generations. They remind us that imagination has value.

That affection radiates from nearly every frame.

The film’s greatest strength is its sincerity. It never treats its love of Hollywood as irony or nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. Instead, it celebrates the people who built the industry and the enduring magic of storytelling itself. Watching the Minions stumble through different periods of filmmaking becomes less a parade of references and more a reminder of why the medium has endured for more than a century.

There is also an unmistakably classical quality to the storytelling. The narrative is clean, purposeful, and emotionally satisfying. Rather than chasing endless subplots or frantic spectacle, the film remains focused on its characters and their journey. It understands a lesson that many contemporary blockbusters have forgotten: audiences become invested in stories because they care about the people experiencing them.

Perhaps that is why Minions & Monsters feels so refreshing.

It channels the optimism and emotional earnestness of the great Hollywood studio era. One can almost imagine producers like Darryl F. Zanuck or David O. Selznick smiling at the film’s belief that stories—and the people who tell them—matter. More importantly, the movie reminds us that cinema is not merely something we watch. It is something we feel.

That is a surprisingly profound message for an animated comedy featuring yellow, gibberish-speaking creatures. Yet somehow, it works.

Minions & Monsters is highly entertaining, frequently funny, and filled with genuine heart. More than that, it serves as a joyful celebration of the movies themselves—a reminder that behind every projector beam lies the possibility of wonder. And in an era when so much of the entertainment industry speaks of algorithms, franchises, and content, that’s a message well worth celebrating.

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

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

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

JURASSIC WORLD: REBIRTH movie review

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Possesses dino DNA, but missing strands and sequences, leaving an uneven and forgettable movie. Jurassic World: Rebirth begins with an intriguing enough premise, but the characters are poorly written, which is then amplified by way of a subplot that only serves to clutter the story. After a rough first two acts–except for a thrilling and fantastically written T-Rex chase scene (that was part of Crichton’s original novel and script for Jurassic Park)–the third act is surprisingly exciting and suspenseful, and at times terrifying.

Zora Bennett (Scarlet Johansson) leads a team of skilled operatives to the most dangerous place on Earth, an island research facility for Jurassic World. Their mission is to secure genetic material from dinosaurs whose DNA can provide life-saving benefits to mankind. As the top-secret expedition becomes more and more risky, they soon make a sinister, shocking discovery that’s been hidden from the world for decades.

Perhaps Koepp’s screenwriting works best when the original version of a script is written by the novel’s author (which, I know wasn’t possible for this movie in more ways than one), and he then crafts the original version to be more effective for the screen. To put it simply, no one knows what is going on or when/where they are. Harsh? Not really, when the movie opens with lazy exposition through on screen text describing an event that happened 17 years ago…keep that in mind, 17 years (placing it in line with Jurassic World not Jurassic Park). But then the characters talk about the research and development facility as if it was connected to the original park–not possible. Even popcorn movies should adhere to the logic of their own world building. It’s as if no one thought about the events that unfold in this movie, and how they relate to the previous movies. Kind of basic storytelling logic.

There are many elements of this movie that fail to make any logical sense (and again, that is the logic setup by the movie itself) or are setup, and never developed or connected to any motivation or stakes. To go into them, would take too much time.

Aside from logic problems, the movie is plagued by poorly written characters, an extraneous, shoehorned subplot, and weak first and second acts (with one exception in the second act that was thrilling). While I appreciate the minimalistic cast of characters compared to the cast of characters in all the Jurassic World movies, there are two competing groups that are pretty much independent of one another and could have each been in their own movie altogether. Yet, somehow, they are sloppily fused together in this movie. For argument’s sake, we’ll call them the Mercenaries and the Family. The Mercenaries and their outside/action plot are fine–I’d even go so far as to say ‘that’ story is sufficiently interesting. The Family and their plot felt extraneous and ultimately of little importance to anything that happened. It’s as if there were two different movie ideas (1) centered on the Harvesters and (2) the Family. And I think either by itself would have made for a better movie than putting them together. These decisions left the movie feeling muddled and crowded.

There is a T-Rex sequence in the second act that is fantastic! It very much harkens back to the sci-fi horror-adjacency of the original movie. Of course it helps that Crichton’s original Jurassic Park novel and screenplay thereof contained a similar sequence. Fun fact: this sequence in the novel and original Crichton screenplay served as the inspiration for Jurassic Park: The Ride at Universal Studios parks. It plays out wonderfully in this movie, like a short film in and of itself, because it’s setup well, developed strategically, and resolved thrillingly.

Even though there are a couple of characters that are almost fun or compelling to watch (almost), the rest are more disposable than a red solo cup at a frat party. You’ll find yourself rooting for the dinosaurs to win. Of all the characters, there is one particularly so annoying and deplorably behaved, that you’ll want the first dinosaur you see to pick him off, (and question why on earth his girlfriend would be with him and why the dad would let the boyfriend walk all over him–answer, bad writing). Other characters are one-dimensional or the casting choice never sells the character. All around, there are many character and casting problems, resulting in a movie wherein you’ll hope the next dino attack happens soon–and preferably ends with one less character.

Where the movie “finds a way” to leave you on a high note, is in the third act. Despite the slapdash screenwriting throughout the first and second acts, the third act is wildly entertaining and even at times, terrifying! It almost compensates for the first hour and forty-five minutes. The (weird) dinos are “monsters” again, and the various chase sequences each offer something different (even though one is a recreation of the Kitchen Scene from the original movie). The stakes are raised and the level of terror leaps off the screen. So often, movies start well and fail to stick the landing; with this one, it fails to stick the launch but definitely sticks the landing.

SUffice it to say, if you took the first two acts from The Lost World: Jurassic Park, and paired them with the third act from Jurassic World: Rebirth, then you’d actually have a pretty good, memorable movie.

As an OG Jurassic Park fan (and Lost World apologist, except for the third act), I hate having to write reviews such as this one for a franchise installment. But, the more I thought about this movie, the more stupid it became. I suppose it’ll make for a fun enough 4th of July weekend watch, but doesn’t do much beyond that.

Perhaps, these movies will “find a way” back to greatness one day–doubtful as it seems.

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