Let's cut through the incense smoke right away. If you're craving more of that deliciously overstuffed Glass Onion energy, all sun drenched stupidity and tech bros getting verbally eviscerated by Daniel Craig's drawling genius, Netflix's latest Benoit Blanc mystery might leave you downright sacrilegious. Wake Up Dead Man isn't just absent the gaudy cocktail umbrellas and McMansion excess of its predecessor. It's actively repelled by them, like a vampire fleeing garlic bread. This time, Rian Johnson gives us a rain slicked, gothic confession box of a film where crucifixes outnumber punchlines and storm clouds stand in for suspects.

Now, before you assume I'm lighting votive candles in protest, let me clarify. Artistic evolution fascinates me, especially when we're three films deep into a franchise that originally sold itself as Agatha Christie with better sweaters. Watching Craig's Blanc descend into this particular heart of darkness brings a compelling new gravity to the character, and Johnson remains unmatched when it comes to planting clues like landmines. The cast, from Josh Brolin's fire breathing preacher to Glenn Close's quietly lethal church lady, chews scenery with holy fury.

But consider this. When Blanc first swanned into theaters back in 2019, audiences were parched for smart escapism. His debut in Knives Out offered boomerang dialogue, Christopher Plummer's cable knit sweaters, and Marta Cabrera vomiting at convenient moments. It felt like therapy after too many superhero punch ups. Glass Onion doubled down on the absurdity, letting Janelle Monáe duel Kate Hudson during a pandemic era getaway. So why now, with political discourse already dunked in tar and social media aflame, does Blanc's third caper choose moody disillusionment as its weapon of choice?

Industry chatter claims this pivot stems from Johnson's desire to push boundaries, daring to ask big questions about faith and corruption while delivering twisty intrigue. And look, I saw Fleabag's hot priest here playing another clergyman with issues. The thematic ambition deserves applause. But still. When my best friend texted me after her screening saying she missed the laughing, my stomach sank a little. Franchises this beloved aren't just films anymore. They're communal campfires. When you swap marshmallows for bitter herbs, someone's going to cough.

This brings me to a confession of my own. Earlier this week, I tried rewatching The Last Jedi to test a theory. There's a moment where Luke Skywalker chucks his lightsaber over a cliff, rejecting nostalgia's pull. Audiences lost their minds in 2017. But time softened that outrage because Johnson's Star Wars detour ultimately wrestled with real ideas beneath the space wizards. The difference here. Knives Out never needed mythos or legacy. It promised fun, stylish mysteries delivered by a detective who used to tweet about Kentucky Fried Chicken cases. Wake Up Dead Man treats Blanc like Hamlet with a magnifying glass, all brooding disillusionment and cryptic asides about his dead mother's rosary beads. It's interesting. But is this why we came?

My theory. Hollywood worship at the altar of gravitas claims another victim. Remember when Marvel decided Captain America needed to punch fascists in a gray airport? Or how Star Trek turned into lens flare and daddy issues? There's a studio note in here somewhere, whispering that mature means miserable. The hypocrisy stings extra knowing this franchise bent over backwards to give us Blanc practicing karate moves in quarantine. Now we get philosophical debates about eternal damnation with rain slashing against stained glass. That's not bad filmmaking. But it does feel like cinematic Calvinism. No dancing, only suffering counts as art.

Human impact wise, consider the viewers currently paralyzed by actual existential dread. Between climate reports and election nightmares, dark entertainment requires careful calibration. Knives Out always felt like brainy recess. Now we get a sermon about ecclesiastical rot disguised as a puzzle box. Timing, my friends, they might have missed the room. My sister canceled her Netflix membership this morning, complaining movies shouldn't feel like homework. She just wanted Daniel Craig solving rich people crimes wearing silly hats. I can't fault that.

Personal angle? I arrived late to the Knives Out phenomenon, scoffing at the peach sweater discourse while mainlining Nordic noir. Then I caught Glass Onion during a snowed in weekend. The serotonin rush from watching Angela Lansbury's offspring get walloped with a wrench remains unmatched. Films shouldn't all be joy machines, obviously. But Wake Up Dead Man's bleakness made me nostalgic for animated corpses and bad Southern accents delivered with divine commitment.

Here's the twist though. Beneath the gothic doom, Wake Up Dead Man contains Johnson's smartest mystery yet. The locked church scenario delivers gasp moments worthy of Poirot at his peak, and Craig finds mesmerizing new notes in Blanc, like hearing a Beatles track rerecorded in minor key. It undeniably works as cinema. But as comfort food? That depends whether you like styrofoam takeout containers filled with Communion wine. Sometimes audiences crave the potato that could have killed Marta Cabrera. Is that so wrong?

Rumors already swirl about Knives Out 4 returning to brighter coasts. Maybe Blanc will investigate surgically enhanced influencers in Saint Tropez. Until then, we have this beautifully crafted bummer of a masterpiece. I'll be first in line for whatever comes next. But maybe this time, I'm bringing my own confetti cannon.