The Final Destination is the point where a once-clever horror concept finally admits it has nothing left to say. By the fourth entry, the franchise’s core gimmick—cheating Death via a premonition—has gone from macabre novelty to rote obligation. The film feels less like a continuation and more like a contractual requirement, dutifully shuffling through the motions with no real interest in escalating ideas or tension.

The most obvious sign of creative exhaustion is the desperate embrace of 3D. Objects fly at the camera with all the subtlety of a carnival ride, and none of it integrates meaningfully into the storytelling. Instead, scenes pause so a tire iron, lawn mower blade, or random shard of debris can be hurled directly at the audience, reminding you that the movie exists primarily to justify its ticket surcharge. It’s not immersive; it’s intrusive, and it dates the film almost immediately.

Worse, the kills themselves lack the elaborate Rube Goldberg flair that once defined the series. The chain reactions are shorter, sloppier, and often telegraphed so clearly that suspense evaporates well before the payoff. Characters are thin sketches whose sole narrative function is to stand near something dangerous until the script decides it’s time for gravity or combustion to intervene.

There is, however, one scene that almost feels like effort was expended: a cartoonishly vile Nazi who can’t read addresses and somehow gets blackout drunk on three beers. His demise is abrupt, mean-spirited, and oddly satisfying—less because it’s clever than because the film briefly aligns audience morality with Death’s bookkeeping. He dies, and that’s good. Unfortunately, that single moment of grim amusement isn’t enough to rescue a sequel that mistakes louder, closer, and more gimmicky for fresh.

It shouldn't be possible but we've cracked the code and found the movies villain to be....NEDSTRADAMUS!

Demons is the kind of movie that feels less like it was written and more like it escaped from a nightmare after being fed too much cocaine and heavy metal. Set almost entirely inside a movie theater where watching a cursed film literally turns the audience into demons, it’s pure mid-’80s Italian horror excess—loud, bloody, and unapologetically stupid. It’s also the kind of film where logic checks out early, clocks out halfway through, and never returns.

To be fair, Demons can be tedious and repetitive. The structure settles into a loop of people getting infected, screaming, transforming, and being hacked apart, over and over again. Characters are thin to nonexistent, dialogue exists mostly to scream exposition, and the film often feels like it’s killing time until the next gore effect or shrieking synth cue. There are stretches where you can practically feel the movie spinning its wheels, daring you to lose patience.

But here’s the thing: the story is so profoundly nonsensical that it becomes hypnotic. Plot threads appear and vanish without explanation. Rules are implied and then immediately ignored. Geography inside the theater makes no sense whatsoever. And then there’s the final 15 minutes—an escalation so baffling, so disconnected from reality, that it crosses the line from dumb to glorious. Motorcycles, katanas, helicopters, demon slime—everything is thrown at the screen with reckless confidence, as if the filmmakers themselves stopped asking questions and decided to go all in.

That commitment is what makes Demons a worthwhile “Bad Movie Sunday” experience. It’s not accidentally funny so much as aggressively insane, a film that believes in its own chaos with absolute sincerity. Yes, it drags. Yes, it repeats itself. But by the time the credits roll, you’re not thinking about the dull patches—you’re laughing, confused, and strangely satisfied. Demons may not be good, but it is unforgettable, and sometimes that’s the highest compliment a cult horror film can earn.

Looks like we missed the turn to go to Nilbog, kids. Let's just keep going to Norway.

Troll 2 is the kind of sequel that knows exactly what it is and leans into it with reckless enthusiasm. This is a big, loud, gloriously dumb monster movie that wears its influences proudly on its sleeve—Roland Emmerich disaster excess, Indiana Jones-style pulp adventure, Jurassic Park escalation, and Godzilla-scale city-smashing spectacle. It doesn’t apologize for any of it. Instead, it barrels forward with the confidence of a film that understands the assignment: entertain first, think later.

The plot is predictably ridiculous, but that’s part of the charm. Ancient threats awaken, governments panic, scientists shout exposition, and ordinary people find themselves running very fast from things that absolutely should not exist. The film gleefully stitches together familiar blockbuster tropes, but does so with enough sincerity that it never feels cynical. It’s corny, yes—but it’s fun corny, the kind that invites you to laugh with the movie rather than at it.

Where Troll 2 really shines is in its scale and energy. The action sequences are big, messy, and frequently absurd, but they’re staged with surprising clarity and enthusiasm. The trolls themselves are impressively realized, blending creature-feature menace with just enough mythic weirdness to give the film a distinct Norwegian flavor. The movie may be chasing Hollywood spectacle, but it never completely loses its regional identity, and that grounding helps the madness go down easy.

In the end, Troll 2 is a celebration of blockbuster stupidity done right. It’s not trying to reinvent the genre or inject faux prestige into monster mayhem. It just wants to smash landmarks, crank the music, and keep the audience grinning for two hours—and it succeeds. If you enjoy over-the-top disaster movies, pulpy adventure throwbacks, and unapologetically silly spectacle, this sequel delivers exactly what it promises, and does so with a big, dumb smile on its face.