Jurassic World Rebirth Review: Technically Impressive, Creatively Extinct

Years after the world shuddered at the return of its prehistoric landlords, a curious quiet has fallen. The awe has curdled into a collective societal ennui; the sight of a Pteranodon nesting atop a skyscraper is now met with the same weary sigh as a delayed subway train.

The miracle of de-extinction has completed its inevitable lifecycle in the modern consciousness, from terror to wonder to marketable theme park, and finally, to inconvenient reality. The creatures, unable to thrive in our polluted atmosphere, have been geographically and psychically quarantined to a tropical band around the Earth—out of sight, out of mind.

But nature abhors a vacuum, and capitalism abhors an unexploited resource. Into this global indifference steps a pharmaceutical corporation with a plan of breathtaking avarice: to harvest the DNA from the planet’s largest remaining dinosaurs for a potential heart disease cure. The mission, a flagrantly illegal foray into the forbidden zone of Isle Saint-Hubert, is framed as a humanitarian effort. It is, of course, about patents and profits.

And so, a new team is assembled—mercenaries weary of human conflict, a paleontologist starved for genuine discovery—all drawn by motives that blur the line between noble and nefarious. They venture toward this forgotten island, a living relic of corporate hubris, believing their enemy is the fauna. They are not prepared for the true monsters a place like this creates.

The Expendable Menagerie

Every expedition into the unknown requires its archetypes, and Rebirth assembles a crew of beautifully rendered, yet frustratingly hollow, human vessels. Leading the charge is Scarlett Johansson’s Zora Bennett, an operative so competent she borders on the post-human.

She is a perfect action-hero cipher, radiating capability while the script dutifully checks the “tragic backstory” box without ever exploring what that loss means for her choices. (One gets the sense her past trauma exists only on a character bio, not in the performance itself).

Her foil and friend is Duncan Kincaid, played by Mahershala Ali with a gravitational pull that almost convinces you there is a profound character there. He is the stoic sea captain, a figure of quiet dignity whose own grief is worn as lightly as his salt-stained jacket, a testament to an actor creating depth where the page offers none.

The film’s most successful spark of humanity comes from Jonathan Bailey’s Dr. Henry Loomis, the resident paleontologist. He is the last bastion of pure wonder, the nerdy intellectual whose book smarts are hilariously mismatched with the jungle’s grim realities. His flirtatious sparring with Zora provides the film with its only genuine moments of character chemistry, a small, witty fire warming an otherwise cold narrative machine.

Of course, no such venture is complete without its corporate demon. Rupert Friend’s Martin Krebs is the perfectly tailored face of rapacious capitalism, a man who sees a 65-million-year-old ecosystem and thinks only of shareholder value. He is less a villain than an inevitability, the logical conclusion of a world that has already commodified its miracles once before. Then there is the Delgado family.

This shipwrecked nuclear unit feels less like an organic part of the story and more like a narrative parasite, a focus-group-approved addition to ensure there are “relatable” people in peril. While the actors are blameless, their entire subplot is a momentum-killer, a jarring cut to a different, simpler movie that stalls the central plot. Their inclusion feels like a failure of nerve, a desperate grasp for an emotional core the main story fails to generate on its own. They are a sentimental anchor in a film that needed to be lean and vicious.

Echoes in Amber

There is a strange, almost fascinating audacity in a screenwriter returning to their own masterwork three decades later to essentially rewrite it. David Koepp’s script for Rebirth doesn’t just borrow from his 1993 original; it painstakingly reconstructs its narrative architecture, like an artist tracing their own youthful masterpiece.

We once again have a team of specialists lured to a secluded island where containment inevitably fails. We have the hushed, reverent moment of the first giant herbivore reveal (Titanosaurs now standing in for the Brachiosaur). We even get a high-tension, claustrophobic set-piece in an abandoned convenience store, a modern retail update to the iconic raptors-in-the-kitchen sequence. The film follows the original’s blueprint with the slavish devotion of a disciple.

But it is a lifeless imitation, a perfect simulacrum that misses the spirit of the thing. The reason the formula falters is devastatingly simple and best exemplified in that first dinosaur encounter. In 1993, Spielberg’s camera found the wonder first on Alan Grant’s face; we experienced the miracle through his eyes. The awe was human, intimate.

Rebirth, in contrast, gives us a majestic, sweeping aerial shot of the valley. It’s a technically impressive vista from no one’s perspective, a disconnected, god-like view that feels more like a video game cutscene than a moment of profound discovery. The spectacle is presented, but the wonder is not shared.

This emotional disconnect exposes the script’s other critical flaw: thematic indigestion. The clean, potent chassis of the original story—a simple survival thriller asking a profound question about creation—is here overloaded with a jumble of half-formed ideas.

We are given lectures on corporate malfeasance, fleeting meditations on personal grief, and vague gestures toward ecological commentary. The film has too much to say and therefore says nothing at all, leaving its meticulously reconstructed plot feeling like an empty vessel. It has the body of Jurassic Park but lacks its soul.

An Architect of Awe, Muted

To hire Gareth Edwards to direct a monster movie is to hire a poet to write an epic. The man understands scale not just as size, but as a source of spiritual terror and majestic beauty. And in fleeting, breathtaking moments, his signature is undeniable.

A river raft escape from a pursuing T-Rex becomes a primal nightmare, and a vertiginous sequence involving a cliffside Quetzalcoatlus nest is pure, distilled adventure cinema, a shot of adrenaline that feels airlifted from a more daring film.

Cinematographer John Mathieson, shooting on the rich grain of 35mm film, aids him beautifully; the jungle is a tangible, textured place, whether drenched in the shimmering gold of magic hour or cut by the sharp chiaroscuro of a flare against the night sky.

Yet, these flashes of brilliance only serve to illuminate the surrounding gloom of compromise. For every moment of genuine directorial vision, there are ten that feel anonymous, as if Edwards’s distinct style was sanded down to fit the franchise’s rigid template. The film’s marquee monster, the genetically scrambled “Distortus Rex,” is the perfect symbol for this inconsistency.

It is a creature of convenience, its size and power seemingly elastic, expanding or contracting to meet the needs of any given scene. It lacks the coherent, terrifying presence of Edwards’s Godzilla; it is a threat dictated by plot points, not a force of nature with its own grim logic.

The auditory landscape follows suit. Alexandre Desplat’s score is muscular and effective, driving the action with professional precision. It even manages the delicate task of incorporating John Williams’ iconic theme with a tasteful reverence, weaving it in as a subtle, maestoso whisper rather than a desperate, nostalgic shout. It is all impeccably crafted. And yet, like the film itself, it feels like the work of a master craftsman executing a plan, not an artist painting a vision.

Final Verdict: More Teeth, Less Bite

So, what is one to make of Jurassic World Rebirth? It is a film of profound contradictions: a visually stunning ride with an empty destination, populated by movie stars radiating charm into a narrative vacuum. For every thrilling, masterfully directed action sequence that quickens the pulse, there is a derivative plot point or a line of dead-on-arrival dialogue that stops it cold.

The film is a high-gloss, premium-grade product, assembled with immense technical skill but lacking the vital spark of creative courage. Its greatest asset is a cast that fabricates chemistry out of thin air; its greatest liability is a script that treats its legendary predecessor as a checklist.

The title itself feels like the ultimate misnomer, a marketing flourish bordering on false advertising. This is not a rebirth. It is a meticulous, risk-averse exhumation. Instead of evolution, the franchise has chosen the safety of nostalgia, offering a perfectly engineered echo that ensures the brand’s survival while suffocating its potential for growth.

Ultimately, the movie stands as a testament to an axiomatic truth of its own universe: you can spare no expense on the attractions, but you cannot manufacture a soul. It is a loud, exciting, and entirely ephemeral experience—a roller coaster that deposits you back where you started, dazzled for a moment, but fundamentally unchanged and with a memory that fades before you even leave the park.

Jurassic World: Rebirth premiered in London on June 17, 2025, and is set for a wide theatrical release in the U.S. on July 2, 2025 through Universal Pictures and Amblin Entertainment .

Full Credits

Director: Gareth Edwards

Writers: David Koepp

Producers and Executive Producers: Frank Marshall, Patrick Crowley, Steven Spielberg

Cast: Scarlett Johansson, Mahershala Ali, Jonathan Bailey, Rupert Friend, Manuel Garcia-Rulfo, Luna Blaise, David Iacono, Ed Skrein, Philippine Velge

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): John Mathieson

Editors: Jabez Olssen

Composer: Alexandre Desplat