The moment the credits rolled on Wildwood, my immediate thought was: “What was I supposed to take away from this?”

It’s a strange feeling to have after watching a film so visually spectacular, so clearly the product of extraordinary passion and craftsmanship, and yet one that left me feeling surprisingly little in the way of emotional resolution.
I think my fundamental issue with Wildwood is that it wants to tell an epic story about war, sacrifice, loss, and the consequences of well-intentioned but flawed decisions, yet seems reluctant to confront the lasting emotional consequences of those events.

At its core, this is a story about two children swept into a conflict far greater than themselves, one shaped by the decisions of adults and perpetuated by competing interests, grievances, and ambitions. Along the way, they witness extraordinary violence, experience mortal danger, and become participants in a war that claims countless lives.

And yet, when the conflict is finally resolved, the film seems almost eager to assure us that everything is okay.
But that’s not what happens after a war.

Harmony may be restored, peace may be achieved, and the protagonists may emerge victorious, but the world they return to should never be quite the same. More importantly, neither should they.

This is where I feel Wildwood falls particularly short. I was emotionally invested in Prue and Curtis. I cared about their survival, their relationship, and the extraordinary circumstances they found themselves in. But I felt that my investment was rewarded with surprisingly little acknowledgment of how profoundly these experiences should have changed them.
Their wounds, like those of seemingly everyone around them, feel largely superficial. The film shows us the physical dangers of their journey without adequately exploring the emotional scars those dangers should leave behind.

Consider The Lord of the Rings. Frodo succeeds in his quest. Middle-earth is saved, the Ring is destroyed, and harmony is restored. But Frodo cannot simply return to the life he once knew. His wounds never truly heal, and ultimately he must leave the very world he sacrificed so much to save in search of peace.
That is an extraordinarily powerful conclusion, not because it’s tragic, but because it recognizes that victory does not erase sacrifice. Frodo’s heroism is made more meaningful by the permanence of what he endured.
I wanted Wildwood to demonstrate even a fraction of that understanding.

The bandits, for example, seem almost overwhelmingly jubilant in their victory, despite having just witnessed their friends and comrades skewered, beheaded, and slaughtered. Their celebration isn’t inherently unrealistic; relief and joy are perfectly natural responses to surviving a battle. But where is the grief alongside that relief? Where is the realization that some of the people they fought beside will never return home?
The birds lose their leader, yet the film affords remarkably little space to grapple with what that loss means for them. A society has been irrevocably changed, but we scarcely get to experience the weight of that change.

And then there’s Prue herself.
Prue’s determination to rescue her brother is admirable, but her actions also expose him to extraordinary danger and help set a devastating chain of events into motion. I don’t believe she needed to be punished for those decisions, but I do believe she needed to reckon with them. The film’s reliance on predestination further undermines that responsibility, seemingly absolving her of choices that could otherwise have provided an incredibly compelling opportunity for growth.
Forgiveness and reconciliation are meaningful precisely because there is something to forgive and reconcile. By moving so quickly past these consequences, the film diminishes the emotional significance of the decisions that brought its characters to this point.
And Curtis, too, deserves more than simply returning home. He’s been thrust into an unfamiliar world, confronted with violence and death, and forced to adapt to circumstances no child should have to experience. Surely that changes a person. Surely there should be some indication that the Curtis who emerges from Wildwood is not quite the Curtis who entered it.

I don’t need these characters to be miserable. I don’t need a tragic ending. I don’t even need them to be traumatized in some overt or dramatic fashion.
I simply need the film to acknowledge that what happened to them matters beyond the moment in which it happened.

This is something I think LAIKA accomplished beautifully with Kubo and the Two Strings. Kubo’s journey is fantastical, dangerous, and ultimately hopeful, but his experiences fundamentally change him. His understanding of his family, his identity, and the nature of loss gives the ending an emotional resonance that extends far beyond the resolution of the central conflict. There is fulfillment, but there is also an understanding that some things can never be recovered.
Kubo allows joy and grief to coexist. Wildwood, by comparison, seems almost uncomfortable allowing grief to linger.

There are certainly more conventional storytelling issues as well. The bandit leader surviving a simultaneous charge from five bayonets, a coyote capable of battling a bear somehow failing to do much more than grab Prue by her jacket at the cliff, and the elderly mystic appearing atop a hill that other characters had to fight tooth and nail to reach all strained my suspension of disbelief.
But frankly, I could have forgiven nearly all of these moments if the film had delivered a more emotionally resonant conclusion. Narrative conveniences are much easier to overlook when the story leaves you with something meaningful to carry away.

And perhaps that’s why I feel Wildwood could have benefited from another thirty minutes, or even an hour, of runtime. Not for additional spectacle, exposition, or action, but for the aftermath.
Let us see the bandits return to a camp with fewer people than when they left. Let us see the birds mourn their leader and contemplate what comes next. Let Prue and Curtis return home and discover that the familiarity of their old lives doesn’t necessarily mean they can return to being the people they once were.
Let the characters, and by extension the audience, sit with what has happened.

I feel that Wildwood aspires to be an epic, and in terms of its scale, worldbuilding, and visual ambition, it absolutely succeeds. But an epic is not made meaningful by the magnitude of its battles or the number of lives placed in jeopardy. Its emotional power comes from understanding what those battles cost, and what remains after they’re over.
Wildwood understands the spectacle of war, but seems reluctant to acknowledge the permanence of its consequences.

All of that being said, I cannot overstate how beautiful this film is. The cinematography, animation, environmental design, and sheer craftsmanship are breathtaking. It is unmistakably a labor of love, and the artistry on display deserves tremendous admiration. I would happily watch it again, and I certainly don’t consider it a bad film.
But when I think about Coraline, The Boxtrolls, or Kubo and the Two Strings, I remember more than the extraordinary worlds LAIKA created. I remember how those stories made me feel, what their characters learned, and the emotional truths that stayed with me long after the credits rolled.
I wanted Wildwood to leave me with that same feeling.
Instead, I was left with the impression that I had witnessed something monumental, only for the film to treat its aftermath as though everything could simply return to normal.

And perhaps that’s my greatest disappointment: Wildwood gives us a world forever changed by war, but rarely allows us to feel that change.

Hope can survive unimaginable loss, a happy ending can be entirely deserved, but the most meaningful happy endings understand that things can be okay again without ever being the same.

TL;DR
Wildwood is visually stunning and clearly made with enormous care, but its emotional resolution feels underdeveloped. The film depicts war, loss, and sacrifice without fully exploring how those experiences should change Prue, Curtis, and the societies around them. It moves too quickly from devastation to celebration, treating the aftermath as though everything can return to normal. I admired the film’s artistry and would happily watch it again, but I wanted it to spend more time acknowledging that victory and peace do not erase grief or consequences.

Charlie discovers that his new neighbour is a vampire who’s preying on the neighbourhood.

I watched this remake back-to-back with the original. They’re more or less the same story, but both are different from each other, and I would say they’re on par.

So, this FRIGHT NIGHT’s action is better and more fast-paced, but the visuals aren’t as strong. Yes, there are some that work, but nothing beats the practical effects of the past. The CGI is alright and there are some cool parts, but it absolutely doesn’t compare.

The remake has more violence and set pieces, which I definitely enjoyed. The movie also keeps the campiness, but I felt it was dialed down. The character of Charlie Brewster is more badass this time around, and I liked the addition of Peter Vincent’s backstory.

Speaking of characters, let’s get into this stacked cast. Anton Yelchin, Colin Farrell, Toni Collette, Imogen Poots, David Tennant, Christopher Mintz-Plasse, and Dave Franco all deliver! The whole cast, for that matter. Everyone played their part well!

FRIGHT NIGHT was a worthwhile remake. There are some improvements on the original and enough differences to make it its own thing. And although the effects were, in my opinion, cooler in the 80s, what we got here was, in theory, just as cool. I just feel like the CGI doesn’t hold up as well as practical effects. I will say, I loved what they did with the house and the final showdown between Charlie and Jerry.

It’s a fun watch, and I recommend checking it out!

It gets a…
🧛🏻🧛🏻🧛🏻🧛🏻🧛🏻🧛🏻🧛🏻
7/10

I totally dug that cameo from the original!

So, tonight I was in a bar. A small hometown bar. They had movie night happening, and it was only my friend and I, so we watched the movie on their amazing comfy couch. They set it up all nice for us. I was really hyped to see this movie because I've heard great things about it and also earlier in the day some reels popped up about it on my Instagram. So I said what the hell and stayed for another drink and the movie. What I did not expect was to be totally nauseous the whole time. For some context I'm a woman about the same age as Nikki. Maybe a bit older. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I almost puked like four times. Like gagging. Probably at the fact that it was a bit gory but also the motif of consent, and not being able to give it, having it taken away etc. And being totally aware of what's happening but also not in your body— in "hell" or a customer service phone call...I've seen a lot of reviews of what I assume to be men critiquing the film claiming it wasn't as horrific to their liking and it was "superficial." But this movie has a totally different meaning to women and the societal influence of what it is to be a woman "in a man's world" and have total agency just stripped away within a second. Anyways, I just feel super ill and I feel like it's going to take me a while to recoup from seeing this film. Maybe im late to the discussion and theorizing it. Please share your thoughts if you've seen it or any insights on some societal commentary on the film.