The cinematic fascination with prehistoric Earth is as old as the medium itself, yet it remains a notoriously difficult landscape to navigate with originality. When Sony Pictures announced 65, a high-concept science fiction thriller written and directed by Scott Beck and Bryan Woods, the premise held an undeniable, if pulpy, appeal. Here was a production promising the austere survivalism of a wilderness drama, the visceral terror of a creature feature, and the considerable gravitas of a lead performance by Adam Driver. Released in the spring of 2023, the film positions itself as a prehistoric odyssey, one that attempts to balance the adrenaline of dinosaur attacks with a solemn meditation on grief, resilience, and the humanoid instinct to protect the vulnerable at all costs.
Yet, despite its lean 93-minute runtime and an undeniably committed central performance, 65 emerged into the cultural conversation as a deeply curious artefact. It is a film that wrestles constantly with its own identity, caught somewhere between an earnest, grief-stricken emotional drama and a Saturday matinee B-movie popcorn flick. As we look back on the film's trajectory, its strengths and its glaring missteps offer a fascinating case study in modern genre filmmaking, illustrating how high concepts can falter under the weight of uneven execution.
The Premise and the Promise of the Ancient Earth
The narrative architecture of 65 is brutally simple, dispensing with dense lore in favour of immediate momentum. We are introduced to Mills (Adam Driver), a pilot from the technologically advanced, human-like civilisation of Somaris. Driven by the desperate need to fund experimental medical treatment for his critically ill daughter, Nevine, Mills embarks on a lucrative, two-year deep-space exploratory expedition. When his vessel is suddenly struck by an uncharted field of rogue asteroids, it crash-lands on a completely unmapped, volatile planet. That planet, the audience quickly learns through an ominous title card, is Earth, exactly 65 million years ago, on the very eve of the Cretaceous-Paleogene extinction event.
Mills emerges from the wreckage as the sole adult survivor of the catastrophic descent. His only companion in the scattered debris is a young girl named Koa, played with remarkable resilience by Ariana Greenblatt, whose parents perished in the crash. Crucially, Mills and Koa do not share a common language, forcing them to communicate through urgent gestures, shared trauma, and a glitchy, primitive translation device. Their objective is stark and unforgiving: they must traverse a hostile, treacherous landscape populated by apex predators to reach an escape shuttle that broke off from the main ship upon entry. And they must do so before a cataclysmic asteroid - the legendary dinosaur-killer - wipes the planet clean.
This setup is inherently cinematic and rich with thematic potential. It strips away the complexities of modern society, distilling the human experience down to its most fundamental imperatives: breathe, move, survive. The ticking clock of the asteroid provides an inescapable macro-threat, while the immediate, ground-level danger of prehistoric beasts provides the micro-tension. The juxtaposition of Mills's futuristic weaponry - sensor grenades, a high-tech pulse rifle - against the raw, untamed brutality of prehistoric nature creates a compelling visual friction. It is a formula that should, on paper, yield an unbearably tense thriller. However, as the narrative unfolds, the execution of this premise reveals significant narrative fractures.
The Surrogate Bond: Trauma as a Universal Language
At the emotional core of 65 is the surrogate father-daughter dynamic between Mills and Koa. This is a well-worn trope in contemporary genre storytelling, seen in everything from the post-apocalyptic desperation of video games like The Last of Us to the science fiction stoicism of television's The Mandalorian. In 65, the relationship is forged in the unforgiving crucible of mutual, profound loss. Mills is haunted by the memory of the daughter he left behind - a daughter we eventually learn has succumbed to her illness during his voyage, a truth he initially hides from Koa. Koa, meanwhile, is violently orphaned and entirely dependent on an imposing stranger in a terrifying environment.
The decision to have Mills and Koa speak entirely different languages is perhaps the script's most intriguing and successful choice. It forces the actors to rely heavily on physicality, cadence, and micro-expressions, bypassing the exposition-heavy dialogue that often bogs down mid-budget science fiction. Driver and Greenblatt share a palpable, hard-won chemistry, communicating the exhaustion and terror of their ordeal with remarkable economy. Greenblatt, in particular, ensures Koa is never reduced to a mere prop; she exhibits her own agency, fierce stubbornness, and deep well of grief.
However, the emotional resonance of this dynamic is frequently undercut by the film's relentless, breathless pacing. RogerEbert.com highlighted this structural flaw in its review, observing that the film "tries to juggle a wild survival story with a poignant family drama, but both elements feel so rushed and underdeveloped that neither ends up registering." The audience is given precious little time to sit with these characters in moments of quiet reflection. Their bond is constantly tested by physical trials, but the emotional connective tissue often feels tenuous, relying more on the innate sympathy we feel for a grieving man and a frightened child than on deeply written, nuanced character development.
Directorial Restraint: The Shadows of A Quiet Place
To understand the tonal dissonance of 65, one must look to its creators, Scott Beck and Bryan Woods. The duo achieved widespread, global acclaim for writing A Quiet Place, a masterclass in high-concept tension that weaponised sound to create an atmosphere of suffocating dread. In 65, they attempt to apply a similar logic to a very different kind of monster movie, operating from the director's chair as well as the writer's room.
There are distinct moments where their undeniable talent for suspense shines through. The use of the environment - the suffocating darkness of a subterranean cave system, the oppressive humidity of a primordial swamp, the sudden, violent shifts in prehistoric weather - is genuinely effective. The sound design, an onslaught of unnatural screeches, rustling foliage, and heavy, thudding footsteps, works brilliantly to isolate the characters and amplify their vulnerability in a world that wants to eat them.
Yet, where A Quiet Place thrived on strict, unbreakable internal rules, 65 often devolves into standard, predictable action movie tropes. The directors seem hesitant to fully embrace the absurdity of their premise. Writing for The Guardian, critics noted that the film relied on an "annoying overdose of jump scares, most of which cause yawns rather than jolts." Instead of building sustained, Hitchcockian tension or leaning into the bloody, chaotic, campy fun of a B-movie, Beck and Woods occupy a safe, sterile middle ground. The predators - bizarre, unfeathered amalgamations of various theropods - are treated as generic movie monsters rather than awe-inspiring forces of nature. The film takes itself incredibly seriously, a directorial choice that ultimately suffocates its more entertaining, unhinged instincts.
A Performance Anchoring the Absurdity
If there is a singular element that elevates 65 above its scriptural shortcomings, it is Adam Driver. Casting an actor of Driver's calibre - a performer equally at home in Noah Baumbach's searing domestic dramas, Ridley Scott's historical epics, as he is wielding a lightsaber in the Star Wars sequel trilogy - was a massive coup for the production. Driver approaches the role of Mills with an intensity that borders on the Shakespearean, refusing to wink at the audience or treat the material as anything less than an authentic, life-or-death struggle.
As noted by Mashable in their cultural coverage, Driver grounds the film with his "usual combination of intense commitment and physicality." He sells the brutal physical toll of the journey with wincing realism - the dislocated shoulders, the festering infections, the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of fighting off prehistoric beasts day after day. His performance is a masterclass in non-verbal acting; the profound grief etched into his face when he watches holographic messages from his dying daughter provides the film with its only moments of genuine, earned pathos.
But even Driver's Herculean efforts cannot entirely salvage a lacklustre script. A.O. Scott, writing for The New York Times, succinctly captured the frustrating limitations placed upon the actor, stating, "Like Mills's emotional back story, the special effects seem to have been pulled out of a box of secondhand ideas." Driver undeniably gives a performance worthy of a much better film, single-handedly pulling the audience through the narrative's more tedious and repetitive stretches.
Visual Landscapes and the Execution of Terror
From a technical standpoint, 65 is a film of stark and fascinating contrasts. The physical production, filmed across lush, untouched locations in Oregon, Louisiana, and Ireland, provides a suitably alien yet familiar backdrop. The towering redwoods, misty bogs, and cascading waterfalls feel ancient, indifferent to human suffering, and magnificently vast. When the film allows the camera to linger on these authentic landscapes, there is a fleeting sense of the sublime - a potent reminder of the Earth's brutal beauty long before humanity staked its claim.
Conversely, the visual effects and creature design often feel remarkably uninspired and occasionally weightless. In an era where audiences have been conditioned by the hyper-realistic, scientifically updated dinosaurs of documentaries like Prehistoric Planet, the creatures in 65 lack anatomical credibility. They are designed for maximum aggression rather than biological realism, moving with the jerky, hyperactive energy of video game bosses rather than living, breathing animals.
This brings us to the film's climax, a breathless, desperate sprint towards the escape pod as the extinction-level asteroid finally breaches the Earth's atmosphere. The sky burns an apocalyptic red, the ground ruptures with seismic fury, and the final confrontation with two massive, tyrannosaur-like predators ensues. It is a loud, chaotic, heavily digitised sequence that entirely abandons the film's earlier attempts at quiet, stalking tension. It is entertaining in its sheer volume and spectacle, but it leaves little lasting emotional impact.
The B-Movie Dilemma and Cinematic Legacy
Ultimately, 65 is a victim of its own unrealised potential and tonal indecision. It is a film that had all the necessary ingredients for a beloved cult classic: a wild, unapologetically original premise, an A-list actor giving his absolute all, and a ticking-clock narrative built into the very history of our planet. Yet, it falters by refusing to decisively choose what kind of film it wants to be. It is too sombre, dour, and restrained to be a schlocky, purely enjoyable thrill ride, but too conceptually silly and emotionally thin to work as a profound meditation on grief and survival.
For those interested in exploring how modern cinema tackles similar themes of isolation and endurance, our comprehensive film reviews offer a broader look at the current genre landscape. Furthermore, comparing Adam Driver's dedicated work here to his other physically demanding, emotionally complex roles highlights the evolving nature of the leading man in contemporary culture.
65 stands as a curious, somewhat frustrating footnote in the recent science fiction genre. It is a prehistoric odyssey that charts a relentless course through survival and resilience, but rarely digs beneath the surface of the ancient soil it treads. It serves as a stark reminder that while high concepts and star power can successfully get a film greenlit and heavily marketed, it is the execution - the delicate, invisible alchemy of tone, pacing, and character development - that ultimately ensures a film survives the formidable test of time.
