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If you are reading this, you probably know the feeling.
It’s Friday night. You are in the mood for a specific classic, maybe Michael Mann’s The Insider, or perhaps a re-watch of 28 Days Later. You open Netflix. Not there. You check Prime Video. "Rent or Buy." You check Max. Gone.
We were promised a digital utopia where everything would be at our fingertips. Instead, we got "The Streaming Purge."
As rights contracts expire and studios fracture into their own walled gardens, the average cinephile is finding it harder, not easier, to watch the films they love. We are paying more money for less access. Cinema has been reduced to "Content"—disposable, rotatable, and algorithmically suppressed.
But in 2026, a quiet revolution is happening among film purists. We are stopping the chase. We are moving to "Super-Hubs."
The Fragmented Nightmare
The problem with the current landscape isn't the quality of the films; it's the impermanence of the library. Netflix focuses on "Originals" that they own forever, quietly removing the back-catalog of 70s, 80s, and 90s cinema that defines our culture.
For a film critic or just a serious fan, this is a disaster. You cannot rely on a service that deletes The Godfather to make room for a reality dating show.
This frustration has driven a massive migration toward independent, comprehensive media lockers. These aren't just "IPTV services" used to pirate a football game; they are evolving into Digital Cinematheques.
The Rise of the "Forever Library"
Platforms like the Apollo Group TV service have quietly become the go-to secret for industry insiders not just because of the price, but because of the catalog.
Unlike the "Big Three" (Netflix, Disney, Amazon), which operate on a scarcity model, these emerging Super-Hubs operate on an abundance model.
The "Video Store" Experience: Remember walking into Blockbuster and seeing everything? That is what the new VOD (Video On Demand) interfaces feel like. You aren't fed what the algorithm wants you to watch; you are given access to 130,000+ titles, including the obscure indie films and foreign classics that the major streamers ignore.
Visual Fidelity: With the rollout of 8K-ready servers, the argument that "physical media looks better" is shrinking. We are finally seeing bitrates that respect the cinematographer's vision.
Preserving the Art Form
There is an ethical argument to be made here. If the major studios refuse to make their older libraries accessible, are they being good stewards of the art form?
When I log into a consolidated hub, I don't feel like a consumer being milked for subscriptions. I feel like a curator of my own experience. I can jump from a Criterion Collection classic to a 1980s slasher flick without switching apps or inputs.
The Verdict
I will always love the theater experience. Nothing replaces the sticky floors and the smell of popcorn. But for home viewing, the "Subscription Wars" have left the consumer as the loser.
It is time to stop renting access to a rotating carousel of content. It is time to unlock the full library.
If you care about cinema history and actually being able to find it, it might be time to look beyond the Big Three. The future of film watching isn't about fragmentation; it's about consolidation.
About the Author: James K. is a freelance film historian and digital media critic based in London. He specializes in the preservation of physical media and the ethics of streaming distribution
Image courtesy of Columbia TriStar Motion Pictures Group
ANACONDA— 3 STARS
Somewhere in the last ten years, when anyone with a Letterboxd account could be their own critic, we’ve reached a hyperbolic point of tribalism where too many movies are being declared “trash” or “masterpieces” with little to no nuance in between. Add the internet courage fisticuffs of social media communities into it, and we now have this bumpy and problematic “hands down,” “fight me,” or “and I won’t be taking any questions on this” landscape of proverbial hills people are prepared to die on. None of this vitriolic muck is necessary if people could properly define and, more importantly, allow for “guilty pleasures.” 1997’s Anaconda was one of them, and its 2025 quasi-reboot, reimagining, and/or spiritual sequel (depending on who in the movie you ask) hopes to celebrate these necessary declarations of devotion. To that end, a mini-rant is necessary.
LESSON #1: THE NECESSITY OF GUILTY PLEASURES— In a 2016 piece, Den of Geek chose violence, declaring that guilty pleasures was a phrase that deserved to die. This critic and writer will happily push back on that. Everyone is allowed their bunting of freak flags and shouldn’t be shamed for loving what they love. However, some onus and honesty should be put on the lover. Those individuals need to look at the full landscape of the art form to know a beloved movie’s broader place as much as its personal worth, in that those values sometimes are not anywhere close to equal. The guilt is not necessary if you’re honest about what the movie is. Rather than argue about those differences, embrace them within yourself first, and then do the same for others. You get yours. They get theirs. End rant.
Plenty of this is the impossible objective vs. subjective and best vs. favorite arguments, but there’s a middle ground called the two-way street of acceptance. Anyone who watched the Luis Llosa-directed creature feature Anaconda knew they were watching B-movie schlock. That’s why they bought the ticket to see it in the first place in spring of 1997 or nabbed the box to rent at Blockbuster that fall. The fact that the movie was done with thrilling panache and capable technical prowess to become entertaining and rewatchable is what granted it guilty pleasure and “cult classic” (a whole other term worth its own corrective rant) statuses and ratings better than “trash.” It was never going to—nor should it—win legitimate awards. We knew that, and we still loved it. Curiously and frustratingly, too much of the film community has lost the “knew that” part and yelled at everyone who disagreed or had other measures of supposed greatness.
It is safe and even encouraged to return to that place of acceptance with the new Anaconda. Recognize silly stuff done for pure enjoyment. Value it as exactly that, yet allow the flowers to stop there. Not every great time at the movies has to be the Best. Movie. Ever., on par with the true pillars of cinema. Sometimes, it’s precisely the momentary escapism it needs to be, no more, no less. Anaconda understands that limiting bar and relishes in the zone under it.
In this new take, box office studs Paul Rudd and Jack Black play a pair of fifty-something best friends named Griff and Doug. Back in high school in Buffalo, they made an ambitious DIY monster movie with their friends called “The Quatch,” which was an experience that inspired their young Hollywood dreams. In the thirty-plus years since then, only Rudd’s Griff has chased that aspiration, spending years toiling as a background actor with debt and few notable acting credits to show for it. Meanwhile, Black’s Doug settled for a “B-plus” life with his accepting wife (the long-lost Ione Skye of Say Anything…) in the business of wedding videography, where, in the back of his mind, he considers his monotonous creative output to still be “films.”
LESSON #2: THE DREAMS OF FIFTY-SOMETHINGS— While coming back to the Queen City to celebrate Doug’s birthday and gift him a surviving VHS copy of “The Quatch,” Griff declares he has the rights to Anaconda. Twisting the arm of finally going for that unfulfilled dream before it's too late and the chance to make something to impress his children, Griff convinces Doug and the original filmmaking buddies, Kenny (cringe comedy lightning rod Steve Zahn) and Claire (Emmy winner Thandiwe Newton, immediately classing up the joint), to dream up a dynamite script and sink their money into venturing to Brazil to remake their favorite college-era guilty pleasure. Thanks to a silly line, there’s an air of “what’s waiting for us will change our lives.” Leave it to fiftysomethings to take post mid-life crises to far and expensive lengths with reckless abandon.
After securing a screwloose snake wrangler named Santiago (Selton Mello, in a complete departure from his Oscar-nominated breakout I’m Still Here from last year) and his constricting “snakety snake” BFF pet, our Buffalonians, out of their element, hit the mighty Amazon River with cameras rolling. Straightaway, they find themselves mixed up in a destructive gold-mining pursuit involving their commandeering barge pilot Ava (Daniela Melchior of Road House). Once they hilariously find themselves needing a new star snake after an on-set mishap, our humans find themselves IN Anaconda instead of making it.
LESSON #3: WE MUST HAVE THEMES!— While Anaconda launches the fireworks and bloodthirsty tropes of a proper Creature Feature, leave it to the wide-eyed and gobsmacked personas of Jack Black and Paul Rudd to manufacture put-upon epicness inside the mayhem and hilarity. Speaking like the wise cinephiles they pretend to be, they seek gravitas out by attaching “themes” (and, yes, the quotes are intentional to convey their looseness) to their adventure picture. They merrily commemorate each mishmashed layer as “Now, it’s about something.” The original did it with its National Geographic documentary quest, and so does the new one in its own selectively justifable way. Besides, “who doesn’t love intergenerational trauma” in their monster movie?
Anaconda lunges heavily towards the comedy specialties of the ensemble cast. Directed by Tom Gormican, no stranger to piling on the meta after The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent genuflected at all things Nicolas Cage a few years ago, most of the wow factor in this new film comes from gags more than propulsive reptilian dangers. Raising the stakes and, thereby raising the snakes, means camp more than chomp whirling through the slimy special effects of Frazer Churchill and pounding score for David Fleming (Superman). Those looking for an updated thriller, unafraid to crush more than funnybones, should look overseas to a 2024 Chinesereinterpretation.
To like or love this version of Anaconda is to embrace guilty pleasures because this one, through and through. At its core, this movie is nonsensical and terrible, but there’s a surly and emphatic fun factor to being around the outpoured love for a cult classic. Tributes and the flutters of nostalgia exist for the weirdest things in the oddest places, even for a cheesy 1997 movie that made $65 million after being #1 for two whole weeks. It was a helluva time to be alive then, and it’s helluva time to be alive now to see Anaconda both lampooned with love and gilded with the guts of its many victims…err… fans.
LOGO DESIGNED BY MEENTS ILLUSTRATED (#1363)
from Review Blog https://everymoviehasalesson.com/blog/2025/12/movie-review-anaconda
It took receiving a Google Alert on my name to see that a quote of mine on the sumptuous 2005 Joe Wright film Pride and Prejuduce was recently cited on the media site Metro. TV reporter Charlotte Minter wrote a piece to cover the film’s streaming status on Netflix and how it would be perfect for home viewing during the Christmas holiday. In fact, the quote comes from my Cinephile Hissy Fit podcast episode on the film submitted to Rotten Tomatoes than anything I’ve written on Every Movie Has a Lesson or Film Obsessive. They didn’t ask for my permission, but I don’t mind. Thanks for the reference and clicks!
Ian Simmons of the Kicking the Seat podcast and YouTube channel was among the Chicago press who got the chance to see James Cameron’s Avatar: Fire and Ash multiple weeks early. Since he (and the rest of us for that matter) didn’t want to completely forget a completely forgettable movie, Ian assembled “Earth’s Mightiest Critics” to pre-record a “live” roundtable for the movie’s big release this weekend. Enjoy Ian, myself, Jeff York of The Establishing Shot, Mike Crowley of You’ll Probably Agree, and Cati Glidewell of The Blonde in Front talking about all things ashy and blue.
Films capture people’s attention with their themes, and casino games make the scenes memorable. If you brainstorm, you will find hundreds, if not thousands, of movies featuring a tense game of poker. Some movies will have a scene of a big and fancy roulette wheel, and some will show a person winning a jackpot. Such […]
It’s been enough years since the 20th century, when a select few musical acts have reached universal audience acceptance. There’s an easy test one can do to check for names that qualify, and it’s an adorable line dropped in Song Sung Blue. Start your sentence with “Besides, who doesn’t like…” and fill in the blank with your favorite choice.
LESSON #1: CONFIRMING LEGENDARY STATUS— Saying it just like that is key. The use of “besides” punches the frankness, and taking the angle of “who doesn’t like” over the more cursory “do you like” creates a leading question that immediately assumes blanket approval already exists. Now, who someone puts to fill in the blank and complete the sentence unlocks people. If the name chosen leads to an enthusiastic, high-fiving agreement, you’ve reached the achievement of “Did we just become best friends?” from Step Brothers. If pushback, doubt, or, worse, non-recognition is given in return, then the shocked gasps are going to come out, and you’re going to have a problem.
In the case of Song Sung Blue, the name finishing the testing question is Neil Diamond, the 84-year-old, New York-born singer-songwriter and toast of athletic venues everywhere, who enjoyed a 50-year career selling over 130 million records and winning a multitude of awards and honors before his recent retirement from touring.
Go ahead and take a moment. What is your response to the Neil Diamond namedrop? Did your eyes sparkle or roll? This reply will unlock both people around you and director Craig Brewer’s new Christmas release and awards contender starring Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson.
Anyone who’s been to the movies over the past quarter-century, partaking in the high-profile parade of music biopics, knows there is a narratively repetitive template for this type of film. However, Song Sung Blue scales that formulaic journey down in a very unique way. We’re not watching a dramatic license spent on the life of the actual Neil Diamond. Instead, we’re watching the life, times, highs, and lows of a Neil Diamond tribute band. With pure serendipity, it’s the best of both worlds. Diamond’s catalog gets shown off by big-time voices, and viewers get to engross themselves in a story detached from familiar and indulgent fame.
Song Sung Blue begins in the late 1980s when long-locked musician and reformed alcoholic Mike Sardina (Jackman) would meet the woman who would become the love of his life and musical partner, Claire Stingl (Hudson), on Wisconsin’s summer carnival circuit, where she dazzled attendees as Patsy Cline. Inspired to create their own act and break away from the local troupe of fellow impersonators (including Michael Imperioli as Buddy Holly and Mustafa Shakir as James Brown), the quickly smitten duo find they share a love for Neil Diamond, an idol Mike holds in too high regard to ever impersonate.
LESSON #2: THE TYPE OF PERFORMER TO BECOME AN IMPERSONATOR— As seen in Song Sung Blue, it takes a special performer to be a cover artist, impersonator, or member of a tribute band. It’s a borrowed ladder where an artist is giving up a portion of their individuality and desire for personal successes achieved by harnessing the guise and nostalgia of someone else. Who would make that sacrificial trade of pride and chase those types of gigs as a means to get by and provide for yourself and your family? The answer is someone who labels themselves as an “entertainer,” as Mike Sardina does. Refining a chameleon-like equivalent of looks and sounds is coupled with possessing unconditional fandom for the subject and their material.
Merging their talent as “Lightning and Thunder” with new attire (stellar costume work by Ernesto Martinez) and fresh zest, Mike and Claire seek to craft a “Neil Diamond Experience.” They see themselves as “interpreters” and want people to get the same feeling they get with Diamond’s music. By looking the part and matching the spirit of the music, Song Sung Blue follows their success on and off stage as the two grow in popularity and co-parent their mutual daughters (Henry Danger TV star Ella Anderson and recording artist King Princess, respectively) from previous marriages as a blended, all-hands-on-deck family.
Hugh Jackman, showing off his guitar-plucking talent onscreen with his well-known golden pipes, is eminently qualified for a movie like Song Sung Blue. His musical theater roots made him a cinch to be the consummate frontman for this jukebox musical. The more impressive revelation is Kate Hudson, bringing her lifelong piano skills and singing voice back to the big screen alongside her best attempt at a Wisconsin squawk. There is zero fake-it-til-you-make-it cheating or shortcuts with these two, and their combined charisma is dynamite.
Where that appeal elevates is when Song Song Blue swerves to a dramatic stretch in which Lightning and Thunder are shelved for an extended period of time. Hefty events turn matters serious and reflective. When they do, and the flashy hair and makeup work fades, Kate Hudson and Hugh Jackman are undaunted and squeeze more than a little resilience out of their lead characters as their vitality and livelihoods are challenged. Hudson is particularly excellent during this second-act struggle.
Not knowing the Sardina family story, being adapted by Brewer from a 2008 documentary of the same name directed by Greg Kohs, upfront, most folks walking into Song Sung Blue are coming for the music, and you can’t blame them. Idolic worship of Neil Diamond is not a requirement for this movie, but, boy, it sure helps the soaring joyfulness that radiates from the peaks of Song Sung Blue. Even if all you know is “Sweet Caroline” because you heard it at some sporting event, you get that required showstopper attached to a success montage in the movie edited by Craig Brewer’s frequent collaborator Billy Fox (Hustle & Flow) that takes the party feel to a feverish level.
LESSON #3: GAINING CROSS-GENERATIONAL RESPECT— As witnessed when Lightning and Thunder got the rub of a lifetime opening for Pearl Jam, cross-generational respect is a tremendous component in cementing legendary status. When an up-and-coming artist embraces an established one, or, in this case of all things a regional tribute band of the older act, it’s like a vouch for history and leads to fan unification, past and present. The originals get to share something they love, and affectionate new crowds raise the existing reverence. Song Sung Blue extends that legacy-building effect not only for Neil Diamond, Hugh Jackman, and Kate Hudson, but it also graciously gilds one of the most unlikely—and deserving—proxies possible. If this concert movie had a merch table, folks would come out of this buying more Lightning and Thunder shirts than Neil Diamond ones, and that’s a heck of a special result.
Football movies aren’t just popcorn entertainment—they’re one of the most powerful ways America tells stories about itself. This article looks at how football films go far beyond wins and losses to reflect and shape American sports culture. These movies capture themes such as community identity, perseverance, leadership, race, class, and the relentless pressure to win. By focusing on locker rooms, small towns, schools, and professional arenas, football films show how deeply the sport is woven into everyday American life. Coaches and players are portrayed as moral figures, role models, or cautionary tales, while the stories themselves mirror real social tensions and historical moments in the United States. Ultimately, football films help define how Americans understand competition, teamwork, and national identity.
Football as a Cultural Mirror
Football on screen works as a cultural mirror that reflects American values, fears, and contradictions. These films rarely treat the sport as a simple game; instead, football becomes a language through which characters express pride, anger, loyalty, and desperation. The field is where ideas about toughness, sacrifice, and belonging are tested in front of teammates, families, and entire communities. Football movies repeatedly show that success is not only measured by the scoreboard but also by how individuals respond to pressure, failure, and responsibility. Through these stories, football becomes a symbol of how Americans believe challenges should be faced—with effort, unity, and an expectation to endure.
Locker Rooms, Small Towns, Schools, and Pro Arenas
Settings play a defining role in football movies because they shape the meaning of the sport itself. Locker rooms become emotional pressure chambers where confidence and doubt collide. Small towns are often portrayed as places where football is inseparable from local identity, turning every game into a community event. School environments frame football as a rite of passage, where young players are forced to grow up quickly under adult expectations. Professional arenas raise the stakes even further, revealing how fame, money, and public scrutiny can consume personal lives. Across all these spaces, football is shown not as an occasional distraction but as a daily force that influences decisions, relationships, and self-worth.
Community Identity and Belonging
One of the strongest themes in football movies is the connection between a team and the community it represents. A football team often becomes the emotional center of a town or school, offering people a shared sense of purpose. These films emphasize rituals such as pep rallies, pregame traditions, and postgame conversations that bind individuals together regardless of background. When the team succeeds, the community feels validated; when it fails, disappointment spreads far beyond the field. Football becomes a collective identity, reinforcing the idea that belonging is earned through shared struggle and mutual investment in a common goal.
Perseverance and the Pressure to Prove Yourself
Perseverance is a defining element of football cinema, but it is rarely presented as simple or painless. Football movies highlight the belief that persistence can overcome adversity, whether that adversity comes from poverty, exclusion, injury, or personal doubt. At the same time, these films acknowledge the darker side of relentless determination. The demand to push through pain and fear often carries long-term consequences, especially for young athletes. Football movies capture both the pride of perseverance and the emotional cost of a culture that rarely allows people to slow down or step away.
Coaches and Players as Moral Figures
Coaches and players in football movies are rarely neutral characters. Coaches are often portrayed as moral leaders who shape not only athletic performance but also character and values. In other cases, they serve as cautionary figures who blur the line between motivation and manipulation. Players, meanwhile, are depicted as role models whose actions carry symbolic weight far beyond the game. Football films repeatedly ask whether leadership is defined by winning, integrity, or the ability to protect those under one’s authority. This moral framing turns football stories into broader reflections on power, accountability, and influence.
Race, Class, and Social Tension in Football Stories
Football movies frequently reflect real social tensions in the United States, particularly around race and class. The sport is often shown as a pathway to opportunity, especially for individuals from marginalized backgrounds. However, these films also reveal how inequality persists beneath the surface. Access to resources, public perception, and institutional support often differ depending on race and socioeconomic status. Football becomes both a bridge and a battleground, highlighting progress while exposing unresolved conflicts. These stories mirror historical moments and ongoing conversations about fairness, representation, and who truly benefits from athletic success. If you are interested in more football-related content, click here.
Remember the Titans (2000)
Remember the Titans uses football as a framework to address racial integration, leadership, and community transformation. Set during a time of social change, the film places a newly integrated team under intense pressure from both within and outside the locker room. Football becomes a test of whether unity is possible when prejudice and fear are deeply ingrained. Coaches and players are portrayed as moral figures whose choices influence not only the team’s success but also the broader community’s willingness to change. The film emphasizes that teamwork requires intentional effort, honest confrontation, and shared accountability.
Friday Night Lights (2004)
Friday Night Lights presents football as the emotional core of a small town where expectations are enormous and failure feels personal. The film captures how teenagers are asked to carry the dreams of an entire community while navigating their own uncertainties. Football is shown as both a source of pride and an overwhelming burden, shaping social status, relationships, and future opportunities. Coaches and players are portrayed as deeply human, struggling with doubt, fear, and responsibility. The movie connects football to issues of class, economic pressure, and identity, showing how the sport can define a place long after the final whistle.
Rudy (1993)
Rudy focuses on perseverance at its most personal level. The story centers on the pursuit of belonging in a world that repeatedly closes its doors. Football becomes a symbol of aspiration rather than fame, representing the desire to earn a place through effort and resilience. The film highlights how institutions and traditions can both inspire and exclude. Through its portrayal of rejection, persistence, and self-belief, Rudy reinforces the idea that football movies often celebrate the struggle itself as much as the outcome.
Any Given Sunday (1999)
Any Given Sunday shifts the focus to professional football, exposing the intense power dynamics that exist behind the spectacle. The film portrays the sport as a high-stakes industry where leadership, loyalty, and personal identity are constantly tested. Coaches and players operate under relentless pressure, where performance determines survival. Football is depicted as both exhilarating and destructive, offering fame and validation while demanding physical and emotional sacrifice. The movie challenges idealized views of the sport by confronting the costs of competition at the highest level.
The Blind Side (2009)
The Blind Side places football within a broader story about family, opportunity, race, and class. The sport serves as a gateway to education and stability, while also drawing attention to the systems that shape who gets noticed and supported. Football is woven into everyday life through schools, households, and social expectations. The film portrays key figures as moral agents whose decisions carry lasting impact, reinforcing the idea that football narratives often extend far beyond the field. The story illustrates how athletic success can transform personal identity and spark national conversations.
We Are Marshall (2006)
We Are Marshall centers on football as a means of healing after profound loss. The film portrays a community grappling with tragedy and choosing to rebuild through collective effort. Football becomes a symbol of remembrance, resilience, and shared grief. Coaches and players are depicted as guides through mourning rather than mere competitors. The story emphasizes that perseverance can be communal, not just individual, and that restoring a football program can help restore a sense of purpose and identity. The film underscores how deeply football can be embedded in American life, especially during moments of crisis.
Together, these films show why football movies remain so powerful in American culture. They don’t just entertain—they define how competition, teamwork, leadership, and identity are understood across generations.
Released: 19th December 2025 Director: James Cameron Starring: Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldaña, Sigourney Weaver, Stephen Lang, Oona Chaplin, Kate Winslet, Cliff Curtis, Joel David Moore, CCH Pounder, Edie Falco, Brendan Cowell, Jemaine Clement, Giovanni Ribisi, David Thewlis, Britain Dalton & Jack Champion. It has been three years since audiences last visited the world of Pandora. […]
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Three years ago, in this review space covering Avatar: The Way of Water, respect was paid to James Cameron for being less-than-properly heralded as “one of the best cinematic storytellers for action and emotion the medium has ever seen” and someone who “has crafted some of the most elaborate, dazzling, and iconic action sequences for decades now.” Looking over all of his career’s creations from Terminator to Titanic and beyond to his Pandora universe returning in Avatar: Fire and Ash, those weren’t light words. Like him or not, he’s in rarefied air and has earned his massive success and esteem.
LESSON #1: MAKE US CARE— Circle back for a moment to his capacity as an emotional cinematic storyteller. Through all of James Cameron’s foremost technical prowess to deliver the fantastical, he has always found a way to make us care about simple tales underneath the flashy presentation. Through two Avatar movies, he achieved that very pull, even against the Pocahontas, Dances With Wolves, and Ferngully: The Last Rainforest comparisons and criticisms. Unfortunately, that undaunted magnetism ends with Avatar: Fire and Ash. At nine hours and change into a saga daring to be a generational story that could stretch as long as seven films in the next decade, James Cameron has failed to make us care.
Compared to the 16-year storyline gap between the original and its first sequel, Avatar: Fire and Ash positions itself as a direct follow-up to Avatar: The Way of Water. It takes place a year after the tragic battlefield death of Neteyam, the oldest son of Omatikaya clan leaders Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) and Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña). The loss of a child still weighs heavily on the family as they have accepted the invitation to remain with the seafaring Metkayina people, led by Tonowari (Cliff Curtis) and the now-pregnant Ronal (Kate Winslet). Tranquility is tenuous, as the elders know it’s a matter of time before the invasive earthlings of the RDA will mount another offensive to conquer the planet for their financial gain.
LESSON #2: MAXIMUM SURVIVOR’S GUILT— While the death of their son has scarred the married hearts of Jake and Neytiri, the member of the Sully family hit hardest by the tragedy is Neteyam’s younger brother, Lo’ak (Britain Dalton of Dark Harvest). He is the narrator of Avatar: Fire and Ash, and his purview feels a heavy measure of blame for his brother’s death. The festering disdain is made worse by how hard his father pushes him to take his brother’s place and act more responsibly and redemptively to protect the family. The survivor’s guilt also eats at his adopted sister, Kiri (Sigourney Weaver), trying to better connect with her latent spiritual powers and Spider (ScreamVI’s Jack Champion), the adopted human tagalong who is the biological son of the Na’vi-resurrected Col. Miles Quaritch (Stephen Lang), the sworn enemy of Jake Sully. \
Instead of the resource-raping RDA bringing the thunder to the Omatikaya and Metkayina first in Avatar: Fire and Ash, it’s another cross-section of the Na’vi. Cast off generations ago to live in an ashen volcanic ruin, the feral and airborne Mangkwan clan arrives to make their presence known. Controlled by the warlock enchantress Varang (Oona Chaplin of Game of Thrones, slinking and stalking provocatively through the digital performance capture makeup), they are disrupting the peace and attracting the alliance-seeking attention of Quaritch on his mission to apprehend the traitorous fugitive Jake and the indoctrinated Spider.
LESSON #3: MIRED IN REDUNDANCY— For the second film in a row, our blended refugee family is on the run, babysitting Spider, and questioning the overarching existence of Eywa as they debate whether to “bring a prayer to a gunfight.” Within that strife and doubt, Quaritch is still in one-track-mind vendetta mode on their heels and bringing the pesky humans with him. Different parts of the family are separated or captured for a time, leading to elaborate parental rescue efforts, culminating in a climactic massive sea battle where their aquatic friends are called upon to save the day with a suspenseful last-minute entry of reinforcements. If this very writer were lazy, sarcastic, and unprofessional, he could copy the plotted course from his Avatar: The Way of Water review, use a dash or two of the strikethrough font feature to switch and update a few names and places, and end up at the same place for Avatar: Fire and Ash.
Granted, every principal player has their miniature arc to advance from Avatar: The Way of Water, as detailed in Lesson #2. This includes singling out Spider as a bit of a targeted linchpin when an Eywa-powered rescue from Kiri changes his human physiology to be able to breathe the toxic Pandora air, something that—in the hands of the warmongering humans—would level the playing field. Similarly, the introduction of Varang and her Mangkwan warriors in Avatar: Fire and Ash represents a villainous dichotomy from the positive friendship growth cultivated throughout the entire second movie with the Metkayina, and provides a new palette of textures and hues for the visual effects departments to play with in majestic 3D.
As aforementioned, James Cameron can sell simple tales wrapped in compelling, jaw-dropping grandeur, but this overall chapter of Avatar: Fire and Ash feels far too redundant. The potential of each of those individual arcs—stretched for what they are by assisting writers Rick Jaffa and Amanda Silver from the excellent Planet of the Apes reboot series—is trapped in an amusement park ride that demands the same jungle excursion pitfalls, machine gun destruction, silly mano-y-mano showdowns, and an amphibious grand finale that we have already seen before. All of that dazzles once, but not twice, in this day and age.
The painful survivor’s guilt angle alone should have elevated Sam Worthington and Zoe Saldaña—who both took a commanding step forward once already from Avatar to Avatar: The Way of Water, with the added family dynamic—to take this movie over with increased concentrations of their fortress of strength, duty, and valor that started this fantastical franchise’s magic in the first place. They are too often pushed aside. Woefully, Stephen Lang’s exhausting revenge tour steals the sizzling oxygen from what could have been (and should have been) a more raw and compelling storyline of inter-Na’vi conflict with the infusion of Varang’s wicked ways. Cameron and company have this perfectly dominant and visually interesting presence to take over as the primary antagonist and blow it. Likewise, Avatar: Fire and Ash is a movie where the humans—who have had their asses handed to them twice and still don’t learn—get in the way and perpetuate more unnecessary ecological torture porn when they should have been off-screen entirely (especially if Cameron is spinning as many as four more films after this one), licking their wounds, regrouping, and lurking while the natives splinter from possible disunion.
LESSON #4: FAILING TO MAKE US CARE— In the end, Avatar: Fire and Ash is still force-feeding more myth into Pandora when there was already plenty of deeply in place. Because this film regurgitates Quaritch and his apparent nine lives, and pretends to place consequence on the borderline-useless “bro” Spider, we simply fail to care. This is especially the case when it is packaged the same and ends with very little net character gain after another three hours spent chasing aliens and absorbing repetitive environmental and colonization parallel commentary. Where James Cameron previously succeeded in his lengthy epics was when scripts were flipped at some point to shift power dynamics and emotional anchors dramatically. Look no further than the leap and advancement from The Terminator to T2. Shockingly, a copy machine was used in place of a springboard, and the disappointing storytelling results show—no matter how pretty it all looks. Three years ago, in this review space covering Avatar: The Way of Water, respect was paid to James Cameron for being less-than-properly heralded as “one of the best cinematic storytellers for action and emotion the medium has ever seen” and someone who “has crafted some of the most elaborate, dazzling, and iconic action sequences for decades now.” Looking over all of his career’s creations from Terminator to Titanic and beyond to his Pandora universe returning in Avatar: Fire and Ash, those weren’t light words. Like him or not, he’s in rarefied air and has earned his massive success and esteem.
LESSON #1: MAKE US CARE— Circle back for a moment to his capacity as an emotional cinematic storyteller. Through all of James Cameron’s foremost technical prowess to deliver the fantastical, he has always found a way to make us care about simple tales underneath the flashy presentation. Through two Avatar movies, he achieved that very pull, even against the Pocahontas, Dances With Wolves, and Ferngully: The Last Rainforest comparisons and criticisms. Unfortunately, that undaunted magnetism ends with Avatar: Fire and Ash. At nine hours and change into a saga daring to be a generational story that could stretch as long as seven films in the next decade, James Cameron has failed to make us care.
Compared to the 16-year storyline gap between the original and its first sequel, Avatar: Fire and Ash positions itself as a direct follow-up to Avatar: The Way of Water. It takes place a year after the tragic battlefield death of Neteyam, the oldest son of Omatikaya clan leaders Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) and Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña). The loss of a child still weighs heavily on the family as they have accepted the invitation to remain with the seafaring Metkayina people, led by Tonowari (Cliff Curtis) and the now-pregnant Ronal (Kate Winslet). Tranquility is tenuous, as the elders know it’s a matter of time before the invasive earthlings of the RDA will mount another offensive to conquer the planet for their financial gain.
LESSON #2: MAXIMUM SURVIVOR’S GUILT— While the death of their son has scarred the married hearts of Jake and Neytiri, the member of the Sully family hit hardest by the tragedy is Neteyam’s younger brother, Lo’ak (Britain Dalton of Dark Harvest). He is the narrator of Avatar: Fire and Ash, and his purview feels a heavy measure of blame for his brother’s death. The festering disdain is made worse by how hard his father pushes him to take his brother’s place and act more responsibly and redemptively to protect the family. The survivor’s guilt also eats at his adopted sister, Kiri (Sigourney Weaver), trying to better connect with her latent spiritual powers and Spider (ScreamVI’s Jack Champion), the adopted human tagalong who is the biological son of the Na’vi-resurrected Col. Miles Quaritch (Stephen Lang), the sworn enemy of Jake Sully. \
Instead of the resource-raping RDA bringing the thunder to the Omatikaya and Metkayina first in Avatar: Fire and Ash, it’s another cross-section of the Na’vi. Cast off generations ago to live in an ashen volcanic ruin, the feral and airborne Mangkwan clan arrives to make their presence known. Controlled by the warlock enchantress Varang (Oona Chaplin of Game of Thrones, slinking and stalking provocatively through the digital performance capture makeup), they are disrupting the peace and attracting the alliance-seeking attention of Quaritch on his mission to apprehend the traitorous fugitive Jake and the indoctrinated Spider.
LESSON #3: MIRED IN REDUNDANCY— For the second film in a row, our blended refugee family is on the run, babysitting Spider, and questioning the overarching existence of Eywa as they debate whether to “bring a prayer to a gunfight.” Within that strife and doubt, Quaritch is still in one-track-mind vendetta mode on their heels and bringing the pesky humans with him. Different parts of the family are separated or captured for a time, leading to elaborate parental rescue efforts, culminating in a climactic massive sea battle where their aquatic friends are called upon to save the day with a suspenseful last-minute entry of reinforcements. If this very writer were lazy, sarcastic, and unprofessional, he could copy the plotted course from his Avatar: The Way of Water review, use a dash or two of the strikethrough font feature to switch and update a few names and places, and end up at the same place for Avatar: Fire and Ash.
Granted, every principal player has their miniature arc to advance from Avatar: The Way of Water, as detailed in Lesson #2. This includes singling out Spider as a bit of a targeted linchpin when an Eywa-powered rescue from Kiri changes his human physiology to be able to breathe the toxic Pandora air, something that—in the hands of the warmongering humans—would level the playing field. Similarly, the introduction of Varang and her Mangkwan warriors in Avatar: Fire and Ash represents a villainous dichotomy from the positive friendship growth cultivated throughout the entire second movie with the Metkayina, and provides a new palette of textures and hues for the visual effects departments to play with in majestic 3D.
As aforementioned, James Cameron can sell simple tales wrapped in compelling, jaw-dropping grandeur, but this overall chapter of Avatar: Fire and Ash feels far too redundant. The potential of each of those individual arcs—stretched for what they are by assisting writers Rick Jaffa and Amanda Silver from the excellent Planet of the Apes reboot series—is trapped in an amusement park ride that demands the same jungle excursion pitfalls, machine gun destruction, silly mano-y-mano showdowns, and an amphibious grand finale that we have already seen before. All of that dazzles once, but not twice, in this day and age.
The painful survivor’s guilt angle alone should have elevated Sam Worthington and Zoe Saldaña—who both took a commanding step forward once already from Avatar to Avatar: The Way of Water, with the added family dynamic—to take this movie over with increased concentrations of their fortress of strength, duty, and valor that started this fantastical franchise’s
magic in the first place. They are too often pushed aside. Woefully, Stephen Lang’s exhausting revenge tour steals the sizzling oxygen from what could have been (and should have been) a more raw and compelling storyline of inter-Na’vi conflict with the infusion of Varang’s wicked ways. Cameron and company have this perfectly dominant and visually interesting presence to take over as the primary antagonist and blow it. Likewise, Avatar: Fire and Ash is a movie where the humans—who have had their asses handed to them twice and still don’t learn—get in the way and perpetuate more unnecessary ecological torture porn when they should have been off-screen entirely (especially if Cameron is spinning as many as four more films after this one), licking their wounds, regrouping, and lurking while the natives splinter from possible disunion.
LESSON #4: FAILING TO MAKE US CARE— In the end, Avatar: Fire and Ash is still force-feeding more myth into Pandora when there was already plenty of deeply in place. Because this film regurgitates Quaritch and his apparent nine lives, and pretends to place consequence on the borderline-useless “bro” Spider, we simply fail to care. This is especially the case when it is packaged the same and ends with very little net character gain after another three hours spent chasing aliens and absorbing repetitive environmental and colonization parallel commentary. Where James Cameron previously succeeded in his lengthy epics was when scripts were flipped at some point to shift power dynamics and emotional anchors dramatically. Look no further than the leap and advancement from The Terminator to T2. Shockingly, a copy machine was used in place of a springboard, and the disappointing storytelling results show—no matter how pretty it all looks.
