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In Jurassic World: Rebirth, dinosaurs roar, people scream, and originality is declared extinct. Again.

This latest entry in the franchise doesn't so much evolve as it loops-gracefully, beautifully, and utterly pointlessly. Yes, the dinosaurs look great (they always do). The jungles are lush, the explosions are big, and the camera never misses a chance to swoop dramatically over a CGI creature doing something predictably terrifying. But behind the spectacle? A story so familiar it might've been cloned from a 2015 script... which itself was cloned from 1993.

The characters are mostly there to gawk, run, and make suspiciously bad decisions. There's the usual evil biotech guy, the plucky kid, the brooding scientist, and a new dino hybrid that's even "more dangerous" than the last one (yawn). Any deeper themes-ethics, hubris, survival-are quickly trampled underfoot by the franchise's relentless devotion to... well, itself.

It looks fantastic and says absolutely nothing. Rebirth is less a resurrection and more a very expensive cinematic rerun. Life may find a way-but this franchise clearly hasn't.

Enya Baroux's On ira is a tender, darkly humorous road movie about death, secrets, and strained family ties. Hélène Vincent shines as Marie, a terminally ill grandmother secretly traveling to Switzerland for assisted suicide, dragging along her clueless son Bruno and rebellious granddaughter Anna under the false promise of an inheritance.

What unfolds is a bittersweet journey marked by awkward humor, buried resentments, and emotional thawing. Baroux resists melodrama, letting the characters speak through silence and discomfort. The film is grounded, visually unflashy, and all the more affecting for it.

With strong performances, especially from Vincent and David Ayala as the gentle caregiver Rudy, On ira explores mortality with grace and wit. Quiet, offbeat, and deeply human-it lingers long after the credits roll.

Luc Besson's *Dracula* tries to be bold and artistic but ends up as an over-stylized, slow-moving mess. While the visuals are striking, they can't hide the film's self-indulgent pacing and lack of real scares. The story drags, weighed down by pretentious themes and melodramatic performances. Dracula himself is more mopey than menacing, and the supposed emotional depth feels forced. Strangely, the film borrows heavily in tone and aesthetic from Patrick Süskind's *Perfume*-the same obsessive atmosphere, the same brooding romanticism-but without the narrative clarity or psychological sharpness. Besson's ambition to "reimagine" the legend results in a film that's more style than substance. Despite its glossy presentation, this version of *Dracula* is cold, derivative, and ultimately forgettable.