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WUTHERING HEIGHTS (2026) film review

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A very lose adaptation.

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

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

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

Unfortunately, that same discipline is absent from the screenplay.

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, there are cinematic pleasures here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NETWORK 50th Anniversary Review

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When satire ceases being satire–we’re living inside it.

There are films that feel timely, films that feel dated, and then there is Network—a work so disturbingly elastic that it seems to recalibrate its relevance with each passing decade. What Sidney Lumet’s incendiary masterpiece offered in 1976 as provocation now functions as diagnosis. Network ceased being satire the moment we began living inside it. And at fifty years on, it is no longer prophetic so much as instructional—a grim field manual for the media ecosystem we willingly built.

On its surface, Network is a scathing critique of television news and the corrosive marriage between journalism and entertainment. But that reading now feels almost quaint. Today, the film operates as a far more expansive lens—one through which we can examine social media’s performative outrage, the collapse of editorial integrity, the rise of influencers over actors, and “content” replacing cinema as both commodity and aspiration. The film’s possibilities for interpretation are not merely endless; they are inescapable.

You can listen to the NETWORK episode of ReelTalk, which serves as a great companion piece to this article through your favorite podcast service. For your convenience, I’ve included some links that may work for you.

When I survey the contemporary media landscape—where outrage is currency, truth is malleable, and spectacle supplants substance—I often find myself echoing Howard Beale’s immortal lament: “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” The tragedy, of course, is that Beale’s righteous fury is swiftly commodified, packaged, and sold back to the public. In Network, that process is the warning. In 2026, it is the business model.

What Network ultimately offers is not just a critique of television news, but an elegy for every so-called Golden Age of legacy media—journalism, cinema, and serialized television alike. Watching it now, I am reminded of Norma Desmond’s aching declaration in Sunset Boulevard: “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small.” Substitute “pictures” for platforms, algorithms, and engagement metrics, and the lament lands with devastating clarity. In my view, social media and streaming have not merely disrupted cinema and television; they have delivered a mortal wound—one from which craft, patience, and collective cultural experience may never fully recover.

Network endures first and foremost because it is built on one of the most ferocious screenplays ever put to film. Paddy Chayefsky’s Oscar-winning script is not merely well-written; it is weaponized language—monologues that cut like scalpels, dialogue that oscillates between blistering satire and operatic tragedy, and ideas so densely packed they continue to unfold decades later. This is writing that trusts intelligence, that dares to be verbose, ideological, and confrontational in a way modern studio cinema rarely permits. Chayefsky understood that words—spoken with conviction—could be more explosive than spectacle, and he built Network accordingly.

What makes the screenplay extraordinary is its refusal to choose a single target. It indicts television news, corporate capitalism, religious fervor, political apathy, and audience complicity with equal venom. The famous “mad as hell” speech is not a populist rallying cry so much as a trap—an emotional release engineered to be monetized, emptied of meaning, and repackaged as programming. Chayefsky was not predicting outrage culture; he was anatomizing it. In an era where dialogue is often sanded down to algorithm-friendly soundbites, Network feels almost alien in its literary ambition—proof that cinema once trusted language to carry weight, risk, and consequence.

Sidney Lumet’s direction is the perfect counterbalance: disciplined, precise, and deliberately unflashy. Lumet stages the film like a moral courtroom drama, allowing performances and ideas to occupy the foreground while the camera observes with quiet authority. His restraint is crucial. Rather than amplifying the satire through stylistic excess, Lumet grounds the absurdity in realism—office spaces feel oppressive, boardrooms feel sterile, and television studios feel eerily sacred. The effect is chilling: the madness is not heightened by cinematic flourish; it emerges organically from systems that feel frighteningly familiar.

Together, Chayefsky and Lumet create a film that feels less like a movie and more like a controlled detonation. There is no indulgence, no wasted motion, no attempt to soften the blow. In contrast to today’s cinema—often drowned in visual noise, diluted themes, and studio-mandated ambiguity—Network stands as a reminder of what happens when writing and direction operate with absolute clarity of purpose. It is fearless, articulate, and devastatingly focused. And perhaps most damning of all: it proves that cinema once had the courage to tell audiences the truth, even when that truth was deeply uncomfortable.

Yet if Network endures as forcefully as it does, it is not solely because of its prescience. It endures because it is performed with astonishing precision and gravitas by one of the greatest ensembles ever assembled. Peter Finch’s Howard Beale remains one of cinema’s most unforgettable figures—a man whose breakdown is mistaken for authenticity, whose humanity is exploited until nothing remains. Finch’s posthumous Academy Award win feels less like recognition than inevitability.

William Holden, meanwhile, brings a weary, world-worn melancholy to Max Schumacher that resonates deeply with his earlier turn as Joe Gillis in Sunset Boulevard. Both characters are men who recognize the rot of the system even as they remain complicit within it—observers with just enough moral clarity to feel shame, but not enough power to stop the machine. Holden’s quiet resignation here serves as the film’s conscience, a reminder of what professionalism and restraint once meant.

And then there is Faye Dunaway, delivering a tour de force for the ages—one of those rare performances that does not merely dominate a film, but defines an era of acting. Her Diana Christensen is ambition incarnate: ice-cold, ferociously intelligent, and utterly unencumbered by empathy. Dunaway doesn’t soften the character or seek audience approval; she weaponizes Diana’s ruthlessness, allowing her to move through the film with the predatory calm of someone who understands power not as responsibility, but as leverage. The performance is so precise and so unflinching that it almost feels inhuman, as though Diana has already evolved into the algorithmic logic the film warns us about—ratings as morality, attention as currency, and human cost as an acceptable casualty.

It is no accident that Dunaway earned the Academy Award for Best Actress for this role. The Oscar was not simply recognition of a great performance; it was an acknowledgment of something rarer—a character so vividly realized that she became a cultural archetype. Diana Christensen is not just a television executive; she is the prototype for the modern media operator, the spiritual ancestor of today’s content strategists, brand architects, and engagement-obsessed executives. Dunaway plays her with surgical control, her clipped delivery and laser-focused gaze conveying a woman who has replaced conscience with metrics long before such thinking became normalized.

In the broader context of film history, Dunaway’s work in Network cements her status as one of the greatest actresses of all time—very much in the lineage of Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, yet operating outside the classical Golden Age of Hollywood. Like them, Dunaway possessed an unapologetic intensity, a willingness to embrace unlikable women, and a commanding screen presence that bent films around her gravitational pull. But unlike Davis or Crawford, her era offered fewer guardrails and less mythmaking; Dunaway emerged during a transitional moment in American cinema, when performances could be raw, confrontational, and morally untidy.

That makes her Diana Christensen all the more extraordinary. It is not a performance cushioned by studio glamour or softened by melodrama—it is sharp, modern, and terrifyingly plausible. Decades later, Dunaway’s Oscar-winning turn feels less like a relic of 1970s cinema and more like a warning label we ignored.

The supporting cast—Beatrice Straight, Ned Beatty, Robert Duvall—forms a devastating chorus, each representing a different facet of institutional decay. Straight’s Oscar-winning performance, in particular, remains one of the most remarkable achievements in Academy history. The fact that Straight’s Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress was won with comparatively limited screen time only underscores the magnitude of her presence. Every line, every glance carries weight. Gravitas is not measured in minutes.

It is impossible to discuss Network without reckoning with its unprecedented—and now unthinkable—Oscar performance. The film received ten Academy Award nominations, including Best Picture, Best Director, and an astonishing four acting nominations across all performance categories. Even more remarkable: Network won three of the four acting awards—Peter Finch (Best Actor), Faye Dunaway (Best Actress), and Beatrice Straight (Best Supporting Actress)—with Finch’s win occurring posthumously. That trifecta remains a singular achievement in Oscar history.

What makes this feat so haunting in retrospect is not merely its rarity, but what it represents: a time when the Academy rewarded performance-driven cinema rooted in language, ideas, and moral urgency. These were not roles engineered for “Oscar moments” clipped for social media circulation. They were fully realized characters inhabiting a screenplay that demanded intelligence, restraint, and theatrical rigor. Even Beatrice Straight’s win—earned with fewer than six minutes of screen time—speaks to an era when gravitas mattered more than exposure, and emotional truth outweighed narrative gymnastics.

Contrast that with the modern awards landscape, where performances are often subsumed by brand visibility, platform allegiance, and campaign machinery. Today’s Oscars frequently feel less like a celebration of cinema than a referendum on cultural relevance as defined by streaming metrics and algorithmic reach. In that context, Network’s acting sweep feels not merely impressive, but elegiac—another artifact from a period when cinema trusted adults to speak, listen, and think.

This is where Network dovetails uncomfortably with my broader reflections on the erosion of cinematic prestige and journalistic integrity. The film arrived at a moment when studios still believed movies could challenge audiences, when networks still pretended journalism was a public service, and when awards bodies still recognized craft over content. That ecosystem no longer exists.

Today, companies like Netflix and Disney—titans of scale and convenience—have played outsized roles in flattening the cultural landscape. Netflix’s content-first philosophy has blurred the line between cinema and disposable product, prioritizing volume over vision and treating storytelling as a data problem to be optimized rather than an art form to be refined. Disney, meanwhile, has transformed legacy filmmaking into brand maintenance, where risk is minimized, mythmaking is franchised, and even news-adjacent programming is filtered through spectacle and marketability.

In that environment, Network feels almost confrontational. It reminds us that journalism once aspired to truth rather than virality, that cinema once valued language over noise, and that performances once carried weight beyond their runtime. The film’s Oscar dominance is not simply a historical footnote—it is a marker of how far the industry has drifted from rewarding seriousness, substance, and moral clarity.

Ultimately, Network foresaw where we were headed with terrifying clarity. But perhaps its greatest sorrow is that it did not imagine how eagerly we would embrace that future. Our media landscape has not merely changed; it has lost its soul. Journalism has become performance. Cinema has become content. And authenticity—once a virtue—has been repurposed as branding. Half a century later, Network stands as both benchmark and indictment. It is proof that cinema once mattered enough to scare the powerful—and a reminder that somewhere along the way, we stopped demanding that it do so.

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

THE CONJURING: LAST RITES horror film review

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The screenplay should be exercised of the demons plaguing the narrative. While The Conjuring: Last Rites offers initial intrigue and a moderately compelling performative dimension, what substance the story had was undercut by a proliferation of monstrous encounters.

In 1986, paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren travel to Pennsylvania to vanquish a demon from a family’s home. This case would prove to be their last.

At its outset, the film suggests a promising return to the roots of this dozen-year-old horror franchise that began in 2013, hinting at a chilling and intimate confrontation with the supernatural. The mood is suitably dark, and the premise—while familiar—has just enough mystery to draw the viewer in for what would appear to be tapping into its desire to be in the same vein as The Exorcist. For a time, it even teases the prospect of a measured, atmospheric entry into the Warrens’ saga. Unfortunately, the promise of the first act quickly gives way to a chaotic barrage of hollow frights and set-piece monsters that smother any narrative tension the film might have cultivated.

The greatest asset in the film is, without question, the lead casting of (returning) Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga and the addition of Mia Tomlinson as daughter Judy Warren and Ben Hardy as her fiancé Tony. Farmiga and Wilson remain the heart of the franchise–they are the soul reason this franchise continued for as long as it did. Their impeccable chemistry continues to play a vital role in lending credibility and weight to this story and the others in the franchise that would otherwise struggles to stay grounded. Combining Farmiga and Wilson with Tomlinson and Hardy, their collective performances carry an emotional authenticity that suggests a deeper, more resonant film lurking beneath the surface–too bad it was largely kept beneath the surface of the picture. Additionally, the supporting players, too, offer moderately compelling turns, doing what they can with material that rarely allows for nuance.

Where Last Rites falters most egregiously is in its writing—particularly in the second and third acts. What begins with threads of intrigue quickly unravels into a tangle of formulaic plot beats, ill-defined stakes, and a near-total abandonment of narrative discipline. The dialogue oscillates between expositional over-explaining and perfunctory banter, never achieving the kind of earnestness that made earlier entries memorable. By the climax, the story feels more like a theme park attraction than a descent into the occult. (Speaking of which, The Conjuring-verse would make for a fantastic Halloween Horror Nights House if an agreement between New Line Cinema and Universal Parks and Resorts could ever be reached).

Equally troubling is the film’s shallow and often misguided treatment of spiritual warfare. While The Conjuring-verse has historically dabbled in theological and metaphysical ideas, this installment offers only a cursory exploration—at times bordering on ignorance. Themes of faith, redemption, and evil are reduced to ornamental set dressing rather than being woven meaningfully into the narrative. Fundamental tenets of spiritual warfare are neglected: Scripture teaches that “demons tremble at His name” and that they cannot force a person, calling on the Lord, to take their own life or that of another—tempt, yes; coerce, no. This misunderstanding undercuts the stakes, turning spiritual conflict into spectacle rather than a profound struggle. Even William Friedkin’s The Exorcist handled these dimensions with reverence and gravity, whereas here they are clumsily exploited for empty shocks.

From a film craft perspective, the overreliance on CGI monsters is perhaps the final nail in the coffin for this horror franchise and universe. Where practical effects could have imbued the film with texture, tangibility, and dread, we are instead subjected to a parade of vapid, weightless apparitions. Without giving way to spoilers too much, there is a scene in which Lorraine is staring in to a sink that overflows with blood–CGI blood. If Kubrick could pull off the bloody elevator scene in The Shining then this movie could have used practical effects for this scene. I am not suggesting that practical effects alone would have “saved” the soul of this movies, but an increase in the degree to which practical and mechanical effects were integrated into the narrative certainly would’ve helped the movie feel more tangible. The jump scares—frequent and rarely earned—feel like mechanical interruptions rather than organic outgrowths of fear. It is horror by checklist, and it shows. By the time we arrive at the third act, nearly every scene or sequence has a series of jump scares that are predictable at best and lazy at worst. More character-driven moments and dramatic conflict would’ve been a great tool for emotional resets and plot/character development.

In the end, The Conjuring: Last Rites is neither the triumphant sendoff nor the atmospheric chiller it aspires to be. It is a film at war with its own instincts: part haunted house, part monster mash, and ultimately, part missed opportunity. All that said, it’s not a bad movie–it’s better than many of the other installments. But a franchise that needed to end with an Annabelle: Creation would up ending with an Annabelle.

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

SUPERMAN (2025) movie review

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SuperFULL. James Gunn’s Superman is bursting at the seams with plots and characters, resulting in an overwhelming experience. But, the lead characters and hero’s journey are truly super. While weak on narrative, Gunn’s take on the man of steel sticks the landing on the lead characters. And it’s the characters that will keep you sufficiently enough vested in the movie.

When Superman gets drawn into conflicts at home and abroad, his actions are questioned, giving tech billionaire Lex Luthor the opportunity to get the Man of Steel out of the way for good. Will intrepid reporter Lois Lane and Superman’s four-legged companion, Krypto, be able to help him before it’s too late?

While the plotting and many characters lack fine-tuning, David Corenswet’s Clark/Superman and Nicholas Hoult’s Lex Luthor feel like extensions of their comic book origins–in all the best ways possible. Corenswet delivers a Superman that displays the strength and powers that are synonymous with the character, but Gunn adds in a discernible human dimension that has long-since been missing in Superman to make him more human, more relatable. Hoult’s Lex Luthor is nightmarishly deplorable and demonstrates the power of greed. Rachel Brosnahan’s Lois Lane strikes a fantastic balance between hard-hitting journalist and romantic; the chemistry between Corenswet and Brosnahan land on an ideal formula for character development and an old-fashioned romance.

Gunn underscores the movie with some thoughtful social commentary on the fickleness of society, terrifying power of social media, and fickle nature of broadcast media. He cleverly embeds this timely commentary beneath the movie’s spectacle, offering a pointed critique of our shallow, performative culture. Through Clark’s interactions with a world obsessed with optics and outrage, the film holds a mirror to the hollow validation of social media, where sincerity is traded for virality and truth becomes secondary to trend. Gunn also confronts the fickle nature of society itself — how easily the public elevates heroes only to tear them down at the slightest misstep, revealing more about our own insecurities than the hero’s flaws. Even broadcast media doesn’t escape unscathed; the film paints it as a machine of half-truths and spectacle, perpetuating narratives that distort rather than illuminate. In these ways, Superman emerges not just as a story of a man learning to save the world, but as a subtle indictment of a world that seems increasingly uninterested in being saved — at least, not sincerely.

James Gunn’s choice to craft a more human, more relatable Superman is not just a bold creative pivot — it’s an overdue course correction for a character who, for decades, has too often felt like a distant monument rather than a man. Traditionally, Superman has been written and portrayed as a flawless demigod: morally unassailable, physically unstoppable, and emotionally impenetrable — admirable, yes, but also alienating and, frankly, boring. Gunn understands that audiences connect most deeply not with perfection but with struggle, doubt, and vulnerability. By leaning into Clark Kent’s humanity — his insecurities, his quiet kindness, his yearning to belong — Gunn breathes new life into a character long encased in marble. In doing so, he not only makes Superman interesting again but also reminds us that heroism is not about being invincible; it’s about being profoundly, recognizably human.

For all its noble intentions and flashes of brilliance, Gunn’s Superman suffers from a narrative that simply has far too much going on — and not in a way that feels rich or layered, but cluttered and exhausting. In trying to weave together a pantheon of ancillary characters, subplots, and Easter eggs, the film forgets that its emotional core should be Clark Kent’s journey, not a checklist of cameos and teases for future installments. The supporting players, while individually intriguing on paper, pile up to such an extent that they suffocate the story rather than enrich it, leaving audiences with a nagging sense of being overwhelmed rather than immersed. Instead of honing in on what makes Superman compelling, the movie disperses its energy in too many directions, diluting its impact and leaving the viewer wishing it had trusted more in simplicity — and in its titular hero.

Definitely not your dad or grandfather’s Superman; however, this is a Superman that remains super yet connects with audiences through the human dimension.

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

F1 THE MOVIE film review

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Starts on high octane, finishes on fumes. From the exhilarating technical achievement to the fantastic cast chemistry to the underdog story of redemption, it would appear that the “formula” for F1 was of sound design and execution; unfortunately, the character development is rushed and the third act simply doesn’t offer the adrenaline-pumping suspense and action as do the firsts two acts.

In the 1990s, Sonny Hayes (Brad Pitt) was Formula 1’s most promising driver until an accident on the track nearly ended his career. Thirty years later, the owner of a struggling Formula 1 team convinces Sonny to return to racing and become the best in the world. Driving alongside the team’s hotshot rookie, Sonny soon learns that the road to redemption is not something you can travel alone.

If for no other reason, see this film on the biggest screen with the highest quality sound because Joseph Kosinski’s F1 is why the BIG screen was made. From beginning to end, the cinematography and editing deserve top billing for this picture because you will feel that you are right there in the crowd or with the drivers along the Grand Prix. Even if you know little to nothing about Formula 1 racing, you will never feel lost as there are sufficient context clues and exposition to keep you along for the 200mph ride. It would have been too easy to lean into the racing sequences, but the racing punctuates the rest of the story, so each and every time you are on the track of the Grand Prix, there has been an emotional and chemical reset from the previous racing scenes. Both the sound design and cinematography are outstanding in this octane-fueled motion picture.

The score from Hans Zimmer serves as a direct extension of both action and character in F1. His energetic score blends sweeping orchestration with pulsating electronic textures that wrap audiences in the big screen story. Zimmer’s ability to craft a human story inside a mechanical world is on full display in the film. Where his brilliance as a composer is witnessed most is in the rhythmic choices scene to scene. He employs musical motifs that emulate machinery or momentum, which in a sport where every millisecond matters, Zimmer’s percussive, syncopated techniques mirror the precision and stakes of the most elite motorsport. In a film that captures a motorsport that crosses cultural boundaries–a global sport–Zimmer’s score represents a cross-section of the various regions of the world that play host to Formula 1 and seamlessly transcends cultural boundaries, creating a sort of global score that resonates with audiences from around the world.

While the plotting is sound, and serves as the foundation for a compelling story, where the film suffers is in the character development and third act. The setup in the first act informs the audience of everything needed to understand our two central characters of Sonny and Joshua (Idris) and the two vastly different worlds in which they live yet are connected by the thrill and love of racing. Of course, this thrill and love is expressed differently based upon the difference in both generation and worldview. Everything needed for a compelling character journey formula is there, but falters in the third act. Underscoring the story is social commentary on our drive (or motivation) for pursuing a passion, be that a career or by extension, a hobby. And it’s in this motivation that we witness our central characters develop over the course of the narrative conflict.

Sonny is a cynical former (generation X) Formula 1 driver, that was once heralded as the newest star on the Grand Prix circuit. In contrast, Joshua “JP” is the (generation Z) talented and charismatic driver that is obsessed with his image (with help from his press manager). Both drivers excel in talent, but are each battling their own respective demons. Sonny and JP develop over the course of the film–each man’s worldview challenged. Sonny has to grow in team spirit and JP has to grow in humility. The character arcs on which both characters are traveling begin and even develop in compelling ways, even resonating with audience members that are somewhere on the spectrum between both individuals; but, the change in both characters is too rapid when the resolution comes in the third act. JP’s scenario appears to be the perfect canvas on which to paint a portrait of what happens when we lose focus on the love of a sport and rather find ourselves lost in the celebrity of it, lost in the toxic social media swamp. Sonny’s character arc feels more complete, but even his switch from where he was to where he ended resolved itself too quickly, losing the full impact that it could have had.

Kosinski’s casting decisions result in a cast that demonstrates excellence in chemistry. There is an authenticity in the relationships and dynamics among the lead and supporting cast. Never once, did I feel that I was watching actors–rather–I felt I was watching real Formula 1 drivers, crew, and investors. I completely buy the longtime relationship between Sonny and Reuben (Bardem), even though we spend minimal time on the history of their friendship. And the clashes between Sonny and the pit crew and directors never felt rehearsed or contrived.

Even though there are shortcomings in the third act, the film remains an exhilarating experience. Movies like this is that for which the BIG screen was created–to capture larger than life stories that most audience members will never face or experience.

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