There’s suspension of disbelief, and then there’s Jurassic World: Rebirth—the latest, and hopefully final, gasp from a franchise that once roared but now mostly wheezes. Directed by Gareth Edwards with Steven Spielberg still listed as an executive producer, the film feels less like a thrilling new chapter and more like a stitched-together collage of better moments from the original Jurassic Park. It has the roar, the budget, and the iconic John Williams theme, but lacks the magic, tension, and originality. What it does have is a surprising commitment to recycling—from plot devices to whole sequences—without ever justifying its existence.
Scarlett Johansson stars as Zora Bennett, a sleek, no-nonsense mercenary hired by pharmaceutical mogul Martin Krebs (Rupert Friend) to sneak onto a remote, dino-infested island and retrieve genetic samples for medical research. Apparently, dinosaur DNA might hold the key to curing heart disease—because, sure, why not? Mahershala Ali joins her as the brooding boat owner, Duncan Kincaid, and Jonathan Bailey as Dr. Henry Loomis, a museum curator of dinosaur exhibits who wants to see them live and in the wild. Johansson plays her role with deadpan efficiency, clearly here for the paycheck, and honestly, who can blame her?
Then there’s the family subplot, which feels force-fed into the narrative with all the grace of a tranquilized stegosaurus. Manuel Garcia-Rulfo plays Reuben Delgado, a widowed father whose overturned boat trip with his two daughters—Theresa (Luna Blaise) and Isabella (Audrina Miranda)—and Theresa’s boyfriend Xavier (David Iacono) gets them rescued at sea and landed on the same forbidden island with Bennett’s crew, only to be separated and follow two different paths to what ends up being a lab and an extraction point. Their dynamic is supposed to add emotional weight, and while it does feel forced, it occasionally offers more interest than the extremely thin central plot. It’s an obvious ploy to broaden the appeal, but instead of enhancing the film, the family storyline only partially succeeds in giving the film a semblance of a human core.
The new dinosaur antagonist—the “Distortus Rex”—is a glowing, six-limbed, electricity-spewing creation that looks like someone mashed up a raptor, a jellyfish, and an off-brand kaiju. It’s never scary, only absurd. Most of its scenes play more like boss fights in a bad video game than thrilling encounters. Add to that a series of action beats so predictable that every character’s fate is practically stamped on their forehead. There’s no suspense here, only a slow march through a screenplay that telegraphs every twist and turn.
Scenes are lifted wholesale from the original Jurassic Park, including a hide-and-seek sequence in a kitchen, a rippling puddle heralding an incoming threat, and even a slow-motion flare toss. Instead of homage, these feel like creative bankruptcy. The pacing is adequate—it moves quickly enough to avoid boredom—but it never builds meaningful tension or emotional investment. Even the soaring Williams score, used in all the familiar places, lands with a thud. It’s like hearing a cover band at a wedding: recognizable, but without the soul.
Jurassic World: Rebirth is not unwatchable—it’s competently made and occasionally entertaining—but it plays more like a diluted echo than a true sequel. The cast does what it can, and there are flashes of spectacle, but they’re buried under a tired script and recycled ideas. This could have been a bold reinvention; instead, it’s a limp remix. If this is truly the franchise’s curtain call, it’s well past due. Let the dinosaurs rest, and let this series finally come to an end.