*Contains spoilers for Avatar: Fire and Ash*
It’s impossible to talk about Avatar: Fire and Ash (2025) without first thinking about the theater. Not just a theater, but the idea of it. Sitting in the dark with strangers, glasses on your face, popcorn in your lap, watching something impossibly large unfold in front of you. I was a kid when James Cameron’s Avatar (2009) first came out, and like so many people, that experience imprinted on me. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a moment. Pandora felt real in a way few fictional worlds ever have, and for a lot of us, it became one of those foundational moviegoing memories. Even people who claim they don’t care about Avatar usually remember exactly where they were when they first saw it.
That’s part of why this franchise still matters. Cameron isn’t just making sequels. He’s chasing a feeling, one rooted in communal spectacle and emotional sincerity. Fire and Ash understands that legacy and doesn’t waste a second trying to reintroduce itself. The film drops us straight back into Pandora, exactly where The Way of Water (2022) left off, with no interest in easing anyone in. This is a continuation in the truest sense, and at times it genuinely feels like these two films were always meant to be one long, flowing story. Personally, I’m okay with that. There’s something bold about Cameron committing to light and dark, water and fire, hope and devastation, and giving each side the space it deserves, even if that means another three-hour runtime.
What immediately stands out about Fire and Ash is how messy it is. And I mean that in a mostly good way. This is easily the messiest Avatar film so far, with its chaotic, dark, often sexy, and deeply unforgiving tone. There are real consequences here, both emotional and physical, and the action sequences reflect that brutality. Cameron stages some of the best set pieces of the entire franchise, leaning into spectacle not just as eye candy, but as a way to make you feel the cost of war—the kind of movie that makes you excited to buy both popcorn and a large soda, not caring what it costs, knowing you’re going IMAX 3D because that’s simply how the film is meant to be seen.
And for all the critiques people love to lob at Avatar (that the story is simple, that it’s surface-level, that it has little cultural impact), I’ve always felt that what they really critique is its universality. Cameron’s storytelling reaches an enormous audience across cultures and ages because it taps into something fundamental. So many audiences see themselves reflected in this faraway world, one that’s deeply rooted in real-life societies and histories.
That universality is part of what makes Avatar powerful. Of course, critiques of art on this scale are valid and necessary, especially given the politics of a billionaire filmmaker shaping global narratives. But there’s also something undeniably meaningful about a blockbuster that so openly champions environmental protection, community, and moral responsibility. The Avatar films believe in goodness. As long as that belief remains sincere, I find it hard not to be moved by the spectacle on this level.
The emotional core of Fire and Ash is grief. The Sully family is still reeling from the loss of Neteyam, and each character’s pain manifests differently. Jake (Sam Worthington) becomes even more focused on preparation and survival, slipping further into the role of soldier and protector.
Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña), meanwhile, is consumed by her grief, and Saldaña’s performance here is extraordinary. After feeling like The Way of Water pushed her to the sidelines, Fire and Ash makes it clear that restraint may have been necessary. Her rage, her sorrow, her eventual reconnection with herself as both warrior and mother, all land with tremendous force. Her action sequences are some of the most gripping, gaggy moments in the entire franchise. The kind that has you ready to scream “mother” at the screen. Neytiri has always been the centerpiece of Avatar for me, and this film fully understands that.
Lo’ak (Britain Dalton) carries his grief more quietly, weighed down by guilt and uncertainty about his place in the family, while Kiri (Sigourney Weaver) remains an enigma, spiritually connected to Eywa in ways we still don’t fully understand. Each character’s grief is flawed and deeply human, which gives the film much of its emotional texture. Fire and Ash is less interested in tidy arcs, showing how loss lingers and reshapes people over time.
That sense of spiritual fracture finds its most compelling expression in the film’s boldest new addition: the Ash People, or Mangkwan clan. Disconnected from Eywa, they bend the spiritual codes long associated with the Na’vi, and that disconnection makes them uniquely dangerous. Where other clans are guided by communion and balance, the Ash People exist in a vacuum left behind by belief. Their presence poses a haunting question the film quietly wrestles with: what happens when faith fails you? When gods and angels don’t arrive in the face of catastrophe? Fire and Ash suggests that belief, once severed from compassion, can harden into something violent.
At the center of that idea is Varang, brought to life by Oona Chaplin in a performance that is hypnotic, terrifying, and deeply magnetic. Chaplin moves with an almost trance-like precision, her gaze charged with a mysticism that feels both seductive and threatening. Every scene between Varang and Neytiri is infinitely more thrilling—two women shaped by immense loss, colliding from opposite ends of belief. Varang serves as a stark counterweight to the light Eywa represents, reminding us that there are also bad Na’vi, and that grief can lead down radically different paths. If there’s one lingering frustration, it’s that the film doesn’t push her further. Even with substantial screen time, Varang feels like a character worth deeper excavation, and it’s easy to imagine trading time elsewhere for more of her presence.
Visually, Fire and Ash is once again proof that no one builds worlds like James Cameron. Space, land, sea… he does it all with a level of immersion that still feels unmatched. That said, this film never stops moving, and at times the pacing works against it. Time and location feel more warped here than in previous entries. Travel used to feel weighty in Pandora; now, characters move so quickly between places that the sense of scale occasionally gets lost. There’s an almost breathless quality to the storytelling that can be exhilarating but also disorienting.
My biggest issue is the overreliance on Spider (Jack Champion). I was genuinely surprised by how much of the narrative centers on his character. In a world full of flying banshees, sentient whale-like creatures, and richly developed Na’vi cultures, focusing so heavily on a “human” boy feels like a strange choice. Champion’s performance is comparatively muted, and while Spider’s thematic role (an outsider learning to connect with Pandora and Eywa) is interesting in theory, it doesn’t always justify the attention he receives. However, the idea that belonging isn’t about birth but about understanding and respect is one of the film’s stronger underlying messages.
Similarly, the continued ambiguity surrounding Quaritch (Stephen Lang) grows frustrating. His alliance with the Ash People raises the stakes, but his unresolved fate feels repetitive. With future sequels already announced, I found myself wishing Fire and Ash had the confidence to tie off this thread more decisively, especially if there’s a time jump coming in Avatar 4 and 5. The ending overall feels abrupt, leaving several storylines, particularly Kiri’s, lingering in a way that borders on unsatisfying.
There are moments where the writing falters more noticeably. A scene in which Jake nearly kills Spider stands out as the film’s worst, emotionally jarring, and poorly justified. Some action beats also begin to feel repetitive, especially involving Payakan, even though I could honestly watch that creature wreck things all day.
And yet, despite all of these critiques, Avatar: Fire and Ash still works. It’s the darkest, most chaotic entry in the franchise, and yes, if I had to rank the films, this may come in last. But that’s less an indictment of Fire and Ash and more a testament to how strong the series is overall. The original Avatar remains perfect, The Way of Water near-perfect, and Fire and Ash a bold, bruised continuation willing to sit in discomfort.
Cameron continues to believe in cinema as a communal ritual, and Fire and Ash reminds me why that belief matters. Pandora may feel dimmer now, more fractured and uncertain, but maybe that’s the point. Sometimes spectacle isn’t about escape, it’s about confronting what happens when the light starts to fade, and choosing to keep fighting anyway.
Review Courtesy of Jake Fittipaldi
Feature Image Credit to Walt Disney Studios