Fossil Fuels: The Jurassic Series’ Struggle Against Its Own Success
Three decades have passed since Steven Spielberg first unleashed his magnificent beasts upon our collective consciousness, and much like last season’s It-bag, the Jurassic franchise has become frustratingly ubiquitous. Jurassic World Rebirth, the seventh installment in this sartorial dinosaur saga, arrives with all the fanfare of a perfectly pressed Hermès scarf—technically flawless, undeniably expensive, yet somehow missing that ineffable spark that transforms mere luxury into legend.
Director Gareth Edwards, whose previous work on Godzilla and Rogue One demonstrated an exquisite eye for visual poetry, seems constrained here by the very formula that once felt revolutionary. Like watching a master couturier forced to recreate the same silhouette season after season, Rebirth suffers from an institutional fatigue that no amount of technical prowess can disguise.
The cast, led by Scarlett Johansson’s covert operations specialist Zora Bennett, moves through this prehistoric landscape with the practiced grace of models on a familiar runway. Johansson, channeling her signature blend of vulnerability and steel, embodies the kind of effortless chic that makes tactical gear look like Bottega Veneta. Jonathan Bailey’s paleontologist Dr. Henry Loomis brings an academic elegance to the proceedings, while Mahershala Ali’s Duncan Kincaid commands every scene with the quiet authority of a front-row fixture at Paris Fashion Week.
But here lies the collection’s fatal flaw: in a world where dinosaurs have become as commonplace as street style photographers outside the Met, how does one manufacture wonder? The film’s opening sequence, featuring a long-necked Brachiosaurus causing traffic delays near the Brooklyn Bridge, reads less like majestic spectacle and more like an overexposed Instagram trend that’s lost its ability to stop thumbs mid-scroll.
Edwards and screenwriter David Koepp attempt to recapture that original Jurassic Park magic—those transcendent moments when John Williams’ soaring score married perfectly with creatures so magnificent they rendered audiences speechless. Yet Rebirth feels like wearing vintage Dior without understanding its historical context; technically perfect, but missing the cultural moment that gave it meaning.
The plot itself follows fashion’s most reliable formula: take something beloved, add a twist (climate change has forced dinosaurs toward the Equator), introduce a morally ambiguous corporation seeking rare materials for life-saving pharmaceuticals, and watch as civilian families become inadvertently entangled in the chaos. It’s Jurassic by committee, designed by focus groups rather than visionaries.
What frustrates most is the film’s wasted potential. Edwards possesses an innate understanding of scale and beauty—his creatures move with balletic grace through stunning landscapes that deserve comparison to the most exquisite editorial spreads. When Rebirth succeeds, it’s in these quiet moments of visual poetry, when humans stand dwarfed by ancient majesty and remember their place in a larger design.
The supporting performances, including Manuel Garcia-Rulfo’s stranded father Reuben and Luna Blaise’s resourceful Teresa, bring welcome authenticity to proceedings that often feel manufactured. Like unexpected accessories that elevate an otherwise predictable ensemble, these character beats remind us why human stories matter amidst the spectacle.
Yet the overwhelming sensation is one of diminishing returns. Where once these films provoked genuine awe—that rare, precious feeling of witnessing something truly extraordinary—Rebirth struggles against its own franchise fatigue. The dinosaurs remain technically impressive, but they’ve lost their power to inspire wonder in characters who’ve grown bored with miracles.
Perhaps this is the inevitable trajectory of any cultural phenomenon: from revolution to institution to nostalgia piece. The Jurassic films continue generating revenue with the reliability of a heritage brand, but like so many luxury houses trading on past glory, they risk becoming museums of their former selves.
For a franchise built on the premise that life finds a way, Jurassic World Rebirth feels curiously lifeless—a beautifully crafted artifact that’s forgotten why it needed to exist in the first place. Sometimes, darling, even the most magnificent creatures need to know when to make their exit.
