Title: Jurassic World Rebirth
Director: Gareth Edwards
Cast: Scarlett Johansson, Mahershala Ali, Jonathan Bailey, Rupert Friend, Manuel Garcia-Rulfo
Where: In theatres near you
Rating: 2.5 Stars
In Jurassic World Rebirth, capitalism chomps harder than the dinosaurs—and that’s saying something in a franchise where prehistoric beasts routinely turn humans into hors d'oeuvres. This latest excavation of the once-glorious saga – the seventh in the franchise - earnestly but unevenly attempts to blend action, spectacle, and social commentary. The result is a film that lumbers under its legacy, rousing itself into thrilling motion only in short, well-staged bursts, before collapsing under the weight of too many subplots and a lack of soul.
Director Gareth Edwards brings his signature grandeur, and indeed, when dinosaurs rampage, the film momentarily roars to life. A vertiginous cliffside nest sequence and a tense standoff in an abandoned island convenience store (yes, with Cheetos) showcase his flair for suspense and scale. But such moments are rare fossils in a narrative bogged down by exposition and a script that plays like a glossy Big Pharma exposé set in khaki.
Scarlett Johansson, playing mercenary Zora Bennett, looks impossibly composed for someone navigating mutant-infested jungles. Yet she’s a welcome, steelier upgrade from earlier franchise heroines. Mahershala Ali brings a quiet depth to Duncan Kincaid, her captain and confidant, haunted by past loss and possibly heading toward noble sacrifice. Jonathan Bailey, as wide-eyed palaeontologist Henry Loomis—a student of Dr. Alan Grant, no less—offers both charm and comic relief, though his idealism is often undercut by clunky dialogue.
The film opens with a sharply staged prologue involving a Snickers wrapper, a malfunctioning containment field, and a gruesome dino-mutation. Set 17 years before the main action, it establishes the island of Ile Saint-Hubert—a now-restricted equatorial haven for rogue hybrids—as the site of a shady biotech mission. Enter Rupert Friend’s slick pharma exec Martin Krebs, hoping to harvest DNA from three apex creatures—air, land, and sea—for a trillion-dollar heart medication.
Meanwhile, the Delgado family, shipwrecked by a Mosasaurus, bobs into the story like accidental stowaways. Their emotional arc—complete with a stoner boyfriend, a traumatised child, and a too-cute Aquilops pet named Dolores—has charm but distracts from the central tension. The crossover of these parallel plots results in shipwrecks, chase scenes, and a Jurassic menagerie that includes the delightfully grotesque Distortus Rex.
Visually, the film dazzles. Shot on 35mm with anamorphic lenses, John Mathieson’s cinematography adds a welcome texture. Alexandre Desplat’s score—blending new motifs with echoes of John Williams’ classic theme—elevates both the spectacle and the sentiment. A serene scene of Henry watching Titanosaurs mate in a misty valley is among the film’s most affecting.
Yet despite its moments of awe and a clear affection for Spielbergian nostalgia, Rebirth feels like engineered entertainment: sleek, calculated, and derivative. It gestures toward grandeur and reinvention, but plays it safe—more remix than resurrection. Somewhere beneath its glossy scale and thunderous roar, the bones of a better, bolder film lie buried.
