The first time I saw #JurassicPark, I literally stood up from my seat in the theater, so overcome by what I was seeing. I was seeing something I'd never seen before, and never would or could see again. And that's the point. Like the movie theme park audience, who has grown accustomed to seeing de-extinct dinosaurs, so to have theater goers grown accustomed to the digital variety. And like the park, which feels it necessary to create bigger, badder attractions, so too do filmmakers. The result is #JurassicWorld, a film which has almost all of the excitement of the original, but almost none of its joy, almost all of the thrills, but almost none of its heart. This is not to say the film is bad. It's not. It's a helluva fun ride, with delicious echoes of its predecessor, some terrific performances (#ChrisPratt can do no wrong and the fact that #BryceDallasHoward can kick ass in heels is a check in the feminist plus column, not the other way round), and some clever storytelling (Alpha Pratt and his raptor pack works quite well) that succeeds in spite of all-too-predictable, one-dimensional baddies (greedy military types out to weaponize monsters they would know will turn on them in a blink if they weren't written to be so stupid) and some really idiotic embellishments (seriously, T-Rex pterodactyls?!). But the difference between what makes a classic that will endure the test of time and a blockbuster that will move millions, is that very charm, that very joy, that very heart. Sure, you can have the largest opening in history, and that will certainly make the bean counters happy, but in the future that may be all we remember your movie for.

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