Why do moviegoers flock to overpriced theaters to endure yet another lazy, plot-ridden dinosaur flick? It appears I’ve inadvertently provided my own answer—dinosaurs. Not the majestic, real dinosaurs of yore; those are long extinct and confined to the annals of history. What we have now is a parade of CGI monstrosities, rendered with the slickness of modern technology, but lacking the soul of artistic creativity. Yes, running to the big screen to witness that sounds utterly thrilling—at least, that’s the sound of my dripping sarcasm.

Personally, I find scant interest in the latest installment of the Jurassic franchise. Oh, forgive me for the slight oversight—it seems it has been rebranded as Jurassic World. Clever move, really—renaming a franchise is like putting a fresh coat of paint on an old, forgotten barn; it might look shiny, but it’s still just a rotting structure. The studio heads are milking every last dime from moviegoers' pockets for yet another mindless, clichéd popcorn flick, leaving our wallets decidedly lighter.

Now, let's pivot to the main event: Jurassic World Rebirth, the seventh entry in a franchise that arguably should have stopped at the original 1993 film. Remember when Spielberg opted against Michael Crichton’s original grim ending, opting instead to let the dino-games continue? True, Crichton’s The Lost World offered a second island, but considering how the cinematic industry has gone, it’s astounding it took them this long to exploit the franchise further.

I have a love-hate relationship with fictional series that continue long after the author's death. It's a contentious issue in the literary community—it sparks debates, deliberations, and, at times, outright fury. Whether the extension of a beloved series was part of the author's grand design or a last-minute decision made by their estate or publisher, fans react with passion. Personally, I fall into the camp that doesn’t mind as long as the new author or authors are given proper credit on the cover and it's not, cough, cough, ghostwritten. In my eyes, the utmost priority is that the story is well-crafted. Different writers have their own narratives and styles, but I want to see these new authors treat the source material with respect rather than mimicry.

Take, for example, the late Clive Cussler (1931-2020). His novels have continued to thrill fans even after his passing. And you know what? The new authors get their due credit right on the cover—although let’s be real, Clive’s name still dominates the page like a ship's captain who refuses to be overshadowed. The latest installment is The Iron Storm, written by Jack Du Brul, marking the 15th adventure in the Isaac Bell series that kicked off in 2007 with The Chase. It follows the relentless, no-nonsense private investigator Isaac Bell, who prowls the streets of early 20th-century America like a sleek cat on the hunt.